


Savor

by IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Backstory, Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter - Freeform, Character Attack, During Canon, F/M, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Implied Sexual Content, Murder, Panic Attacks, Pre-Series, Resolved Sexual Tension, Season 1, Season 2->Future, Sexual Content, Social Adversion, Strangulation, Unresolved Sexual Tension, depictions of attempted suicide, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow/pseuds/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another life, someone had told her that loneliness was a choice. They never said that desolation crept up on you regardless. Takes place before season 1 of Hannibal and will merge into the series, if there is viewer response.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Hannibal or anything by Thomas Harris. Soon, I'll add the television show to my collection though, because it will help me fan-out. This story takes place before the first season of Hannibal. It's basically a back story which I plan to continue and merge into the plot of the first season, eventually going further if I get a good response. Italics mean it's a flashback type scene!
> 
> Thanks

Savor

She used to sleep on her back; peaceful. Dreams that used to consist of a future are long gone. Now the dreams come as darkness, crawling up her bedroom walls like black vine, constricting around her and squeezing out all the breath she could ever breathe. On her back she feels vulnerable, although she knows that one is vulnerable in their sleep. Her doctorate in psychology allows for self-analysis and she doesn't like what she knows is true. It's never nice to turn the spotlight on yourself, but it was indeed necessary. The vulnerability isn't the cause of her nightmares for lack of better word, there is an underlying terror that sits jagged on her neck, oozing into her veins and into her mind to plague her through the night and sleeps curled; so undignified, so unladylike. Her mother would surely be displeased and attribute this flaw to her lack of a husband or child. She almost had a child once, but like her mother, he was gone. He was gone as well, but that was of her own doing. She pushed him away, and yet she wanted him by her side. How could he still be interested in a woman who couldn't even bear to leave her house because of fear? When had she become so self-conscious and defeating? These thoughts sped through her head like rushing water.

* * *

 

_"You needn't be afraid, Bedelia; certainly not while you are trying to sleep." Her voice is cool and composed when she responds to his simple statement, so unlike the fetal position she was sporting just minutes ago when her hands were clutching the thick fabric of her comforter, drenching the sheets with her own sweat. She can feel is eyes on her flesh, making it tingle and burn like oil in a saucepan. She hates it when he looks at her like this, when he is trying to love her but instead he condescends. He is sitting up next to her now, and he ragged breathing has settled_

_"I am not afraid, Hannibal. Do not psychoanalyze me." She pauses, knowing that she cannot lie to him; that they know each other beneath the human-suits they wear each day. She sighs and runs a shaking hand through her long blonde hair, now tousled and messy. "That was rude of me." Immediately she feels a chill on her neck and rushes to cover it, even in the darkness. He cannot see. No one can see, not even herself. It is a reminder of what was and what will never be. As she moves her hand, he catches it, bringing it back to her lap. He will not let her go through this any longer._

_"We cannot keep hiding from each other."_

_"We can't." She agreed, her hand tightening briefly around his. This contact was not rare for them, but never casual. Every touch meant something; it was never trivial. " But what about everyone else?" She asks into the darkness. He lays down into the bed and she follows, knowing that he is looking at her but not able to see his face. She can tell that he is looking at her earnestly this time, and his words are not condescending, but soothing._

_"They will only know half-truths."_

_She was able to sleep soundly for the rest of the night._

* * *

 

She attempted a sigh that instead came out in huffs as she struggled to breathe; tried to get the feeling of hands from around her neck. He wasn't here to console her. She wondered if he missed her but her head shook from the naive thought. In another life, someone had told her that loneliness was a choice. They never said that desolation crept up on you regardless. As she dialed the numbers on the phone perched her bedside table she trembled, before stilling herself. Would he answer?Could she blame him if he didn't? Scolding herself, she moved the receiver to her ear and waited as it continued to ring. She wasn't some 15 year old girl calling to see if the boy from her math class would like to go out to the movies; she hated feeling like this. She stepped back into her human suit, a mask of composure when his voice answered with a simple 'hello.'

"I apologize for the late-night call. I've thought about your offer…" She paused listening to his breathe on the other line, remembering a time when she could feel it in her hair. When had she gotten this desperate? What had she become? Her voice was cold like ice, and she needed to keep it that way. She hoped he wouldn't call her by her first name, while hoping he would at the same time. Talk about cognitive dissonance. Should she really be practicing? Could she even accept these meetings? It was highly unethical. Quickly she made up her mind, sliding back into her assertive persona for the first time in months."Sessions will begin on Thursdays, as you suggested in your availability report."

"Excellent. Goodnight…Dr. Du Maurier."

Loneliness was indeed a choice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedelia invites Hannibal over for their first session after her attack, and it doesn't go as planned. 
> 
> Rated T, next chapter will be MA

Savor: Chapter 2

            The sessions start out slow. He doesn’t need to say much because she knows mostly everything about him; things he’s never told anyone. He found pieces of himself in her and he can’t help but regret the current state of their relationship. The past was the past and it couldn’t be helped. Early in their relationship, she told him that he should be careful; that one in the field of forensic psychology doesn’t normally ‘seek’ particularly violent clients. Of course, a man such as himself had his reasons and she knew of them. He was careful and precise. One in his type of work had to be quite good at anticipating a person’s actions; it was even easier once you made a critical mistake that altered your life, resulting in you having ‘sessions’ once a week with your previously-intimate partner.  

            “Dr. Lector, what brings you to this session today?” She starts off, her eyes locked on the pad of paper that sits in her lap. She knows that talking to him like he’s a normal patient once again will do her no good, but if she can imagine, if only for a moment, maybe she can make it through this session unscathed.

            “Dr. Du Maurier, would you mind looking at me as we talk?” He asks calmly, crossing his legs, and waiting for her crystal-blue orbs to meet his. She looks up and he hand twitches on the pad of paper, her ever-so-finely crafted person-suit begins to peel away. As with any suit, first the cufflinks come undone. It’s a tedious procedure, but more will come in time. “I came to discuss us, since you refuse to meet under any other circumstances.” She re-crosses her legs and purses her lips for a moment but he stops her before she can say anything “Bedelia, I will not play games with you.” His voice is authoritarian but she is surprised to hear the lack of irritation. He is not angry, just stating a fact. Maybe that is what infuriates her so much; that he never loses control while she gets rope-burn from reigning in her emotions every time they speak. She abruptly gets up from her uniquely upholstered chair, its fabric imported from their trip to Germany, and tries to leave the conversation. He grabs her wrist from his seated position and rises, pulling her close and she can’t help herself any longer. She moves quickly, her lips furiously attacking his and she pulls away to breath, only to have her chest, her lungs, her body burn for more. The kisses are rough and deep on his lips and when he kisses back, he does so with urgent fervor, eager to show her just how much he’s missed her. He forces his tongue into her mouth, eliciting a deep moan that had been in the works for months and his rough but agile hand moves to cup her breast, her eyes rolling in pleasure. She misses the feeling of his body pressed against hers of his tongue moving over her teeth amongst other places. He leans into her and she briefly loses balance in her shoes, reaching back to the table behind her and gripping it for support.

            _Her heel slides to the side, making her lose the leverage she had. She can’t fall, she just can’t. It wouldn’t be good, for either of them. She stumbles back, recoiling from the slap to the face, and her hand finds the mahogany wood of her desk and grips it for support._

            Her body immediately goes rigid and her eyes widen in utter terror. He notices immediately, and opens his eyes to find that he is being forcefully pushed off of his lover, that his teeth are being removed from her succulent lips. His confusion dissipates as quickly as it arrives, and he can’t help but feel her still on his mouth. Her hands are shaking and she’s suddenly pale. “P-please.” She begins, scolding herself for the stutter and weakness in her voice. He knows that she’s afraid and she can’t stand it. She feels so weak, so powerless. _Everything is ruined._ Bedelia closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, becoming Dr. Du Maurier once again. “Please leave, Dr. Lecter.” She voices tonelessly, walking out of the living room, clawing at the scraps of dignity she still possessed and picking up the pieces of her tattered person-suit.

* * *

 

He buttons the jacket of his suit and sits in the chair for a moment, relishing in the fact that this is the first time they’ve touched in months. He wants to comfort her, but knows she would think of him as patronizing. She hated to be coddled and despite his best efforts, he knew he was quite the patron, although she was different. He’d never met a woman so determined and authoritarian. He missed that woman, but he would have her back soon enough. Wanting to adhere to her request, he rises from the chair and leaves her living room, hoping that if still knows her as well as he would like to believe, he would see her again soon enough.

 

* * *

 

Reaching the powder-room with the dark grey colors he suggested, she closed the door and forced her shaking hands to turn the lock. She looks tousled and feels weak for leaving, but this is _her_ session. He is _her_ patient. _She_ is in control. The mantra she told so many other women to recite after they had been attacked does her no good and she feels hypocritical. Why is she even reciting it? She can’t even kiss her previous lover without feeling _his_ presence, and knowing immediately what she lost; not that she could forget. She hears her front door click closed, and let’s out something caught between a sigh and a sob, covering her mouth immediately to muffle the horrendous sound. He doesn’t bother to argue with her anymore and she’s begun to feel like a lost cause.  She wants to be normal again, to go outside, to be with him, but she can’t, knowing that everything is ruined. He would never voice it, but he blames her. She blames herself. What has she become? She wants to look at her reflection, to fix her appearance but she knows if would do no good. She didn’t even bother to do her hair for their meeting; it just fell over her shoulders casually. How could she let this happen to herself? There is dampness on her lips; she realizes when a chill fills the room.  She brings her now steady fingers to her lower lip to find the result of one of his eager kisses remaining in a small trail of red, now covering her fingertip.

She licks the trail with her tongue and runs her hand through her hair. Later, she will call to remind him of his appointment next week, and she will be able to hear the wry smile on his lips when he answers that he is looking forward to it. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is relentless is helping his lover Bedelia through her previous trauma. She's pushed him away, insisting that he is only a colleague, but he will have her back soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some quotes have been rearranged in this chapter, hope you don’t mind; It needed to be done. Sorry for the wait, ‘dem exams are the struggle, I’m telling you! Please tell me how you feel about this chapter! 
> 
> All Italicized text is referring to a flashback of previous events relating to the story

 

She’s walking through the woods when she suddenly feels like the trees are following her, their branches casting harsh shadows against the rough terrain. The tree branches begin to stretch out for her, until one has caught her sweater and suddenly they begin clawing at her neck, scratching the skin free and spoiling her alabaster skin, turning it a dark shade of crimson. Dark spears emerge from roots and begin tearing her clothes into tatters and leaving cuts along her legs as she runs, wondering briefly why it was so important to do her hair when it’s now getting snagged and ripped from her scalp. She stumbles over a branch and cries out for help, cursing the name that appears on her lips ‘ _Hannibal.’_ Swallowing the bile that’s in her throat she staggers up onto two feet in the hope to run again, but her legs wobble and soon the roots wrap around her ankles and drag her through the woods, a sickening sound of surprise and pain coming from her throat. The wind is gone from her chest, from her body and she desperately needs it back. She’s breathless and startled when the she feels water against her skin but desperately terrified when the  once shadows of tree branches slither up her legs like snakes and wrap to pull her under deeper and deeper; she suddenly knows what it’s like to drown, to have life seep through your gasping breaths. Her eyes are shut tightly as she kicks her legs against the restraints finding that the substance doesn’t feel like water at all, but like molasses. Years of swimming recreationally and for sport tell her she should be moving, that her legs “move like scissors slicing through the water” but this feels more like tar than water and it seems like there’s no bottom. Finally she opens her eyes, only wanting to close them again. She can clearly see through the thick substance, like crystal-clear water from the Bahamas, shrouded in the darkness of shadows pulling her deeper and deeper. Soon the shadows no longer look like tree branches or snakes, but they’ve formed into hands that are snaking their way up her body; she wishes the serpents were back instead. Despite her protests, they wrap tightly around her neck like a boa constrictor and squeeze. The hands soon become arms and the arms soon become attached to their owner and she knows that this is the end. He isn’t coming for her again. She can see her reflection in the black pupils of his green eyes and the way her own eyes bulge frightens her to know end. She’s going to die; everything they worked so hard for has ended.

            _“Bedelia,” He whispers, shaking her gently. She wakes with a strangled gasp and begins clawing at her throat and kicking out of the blankets, trying to get the hands off of her. His brow furrows and he curses himself for not coming to her office sooner. He was just angry with her; he wanted to scare her, as terrible as it sounded. They way she’d told him she could handle anything; that he didn’t run her life pulled at the straws of his carefully constructed manners. The referral was an awful decision he knew, but he thought for sure she would go on leave after seeing him once; that she would admit her wrongdoing and they would move on. Once was enough for him to come back for her, and he was lucky to find her when he did. Now, he wonders if he’s spoiler her; irreparably damaged her. She’s sobbing on his chest, apologizing, asking when the nightmares are going to dissipate. As a fellow psychologist, he knows she’s well aware of the answer so he won’t patronize her with a response. Instead, he pulls her closer and murmurs that he loves her, and she is able to sleep again, this time soundly._

            She wakes with a start, snapping up in her bed as she gasps for air. Gone are the days that she would fight with her blankets and claw at her neck. Now, she only feels the essence of his hands on her throat, but she wonders if his presence is like a tattoo, forever marking her flesh and conscious. There are no whispers in her ears tonight about how everything will be fine and how she’s beautiful, only the cold loneliness of her king-sized bed half empty. The nightmares come less frequently now, but she can’t stop them from coming altogether, so she accepts them. Everyone has their own demons, Hannibal included. She knows he dreams of losing his sister; he misses her. She checks the clock only to realize that it’s almost time to greet the day. Soon, Hannibal will be coming and she _will_ face him appropriately today.

* * *

 

            “I have a conversation with a version of you. And hope that the actual you gets what he needs.” She states coolly in response to his admittance of honesty. He’s not telling her the things he used to and she feels disconnected- it’s of course her own doing but still it nags at her conscious.

“A version of me.” He states. It is not a question and he’s made that explicitly clear. She wonders why she’s being so difficult and she can’t help but try to figure out why he’s still coming to see her; why he hasn’t killed her yet. She wants to believe he _loves_ her but so much has happened and she knows he’s numb to the concept. Instead of asking him if those whispers were true, which she knows they were, she continues to tell him about his person-suit, eventually amending it to a ‘veil’ realizing that he seems to like that better. She wants him to be happy, even if she isn’t outside with him anymore. She worries about him, knowing that he can take care of himself, but fearful of those who can take care of him. There’s over 1000 active serial killers in the United States at any given moment and with his recent work she knows the risk is high. She should be out with him again, at least there to keep watch; he’d never let her pristine fingers touch them. She’s glad he came to her that; he didn’t give up; he needs someone to talk to. Will Graham is certainly going to be a problem and she senses Hannibal is developing a relationship with him. He needs her more now than ever. She won’t admit that half the need comes from herself; that would be unethical, and she can’t simply be unethical with him, not when he’s the only patient she has left; the only thing that’s keeping her tethered to the outside world.

“Are you getting what you need, Bedelia.”

* * *

 

His words break her from her reverie and she’s suddenly reminded that she was remembering the events of their previous conversation, now concentrated on his discussion of his new patient. She knows that he can’t stand the man, and wishes he would just be honest with her like he used to be; they’ve both lost things recently though, and she can’t hold it against him.

            “I worry that I've made Franklyn feel powerless. He wants to be my friend. His obsession with me is interfering with his progress.” She knows what he’s going to say next and once he does she can see the regret on his face.

“Referrals can be complicated,” she responds, crossing her legs over one another. “I referred you to another psychiatrist. You refused.” He goes on to tell her that he was more tenacious than Frankie and his lips quirk.

_She’s sitting at her desk pouring over files from her latest patient; he’s not responding to her treatment and she makes a note to mention it around colleagues later. There’s a soft knock on her door. ‘Is it 4pm already?’_

_“I didn’t expect to get a call from you today, Dr. Du Maurier.”_

_“I apologize for any inconvenience it caused you, Dr. Lecter,” she says smoothly, closing her folder and removing her reading glasses. She rises and smoothes out the nonexistent wrinkles in her pristine suit. He shakes his head, telling her that it is no trouble at all and she smiles slightly, coming close to him, her hair parted to one side just like he likes it._

_“Hannibal, I need to refer you to another psychiatrist…Dr. Green would be a good fit, I think” His back becomes straighter than she ever thought possible, and she can feel the immediate tension despite his persona of up-most pleasantness. Suddenly his eyes become feral but he remains completely still. “It’s unprofessional for us to see each other as therapist-client.” She tilts her head upward to look at him and her uncharacteristically amethyst lips beckon for him to come closer so he does, eliciting her sultry whisper “I need you inside me.”She’s surprised when he breaks contact immediately crossing the room to the door, but a smirk forms on her face when she sees his fingers reach for the lock._

_“It would be rude to keep a lady waiting, now wouldn't it?” He speaks lowly into her neck, his nose moving up her carotid, leaving small bites along the way. She moans in pleasure and reaches for his belt-_

 “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you Hannibal.” He shifts in his chair from her terse words, his thoughts of their first time together lost in his preconscious once again.

“If necessary, Dr. Du Maurier.” He hasn't called her by her first name since she corrected him on it, explaining that she was his psychiatrist, not his friend, words that mirrored the conversation he had with his aforementioned patient. He could see the coldness in her eyes when she said it, but behind that sat the fear; the knowing that the memories of their relationship together just could be the thing that tears her apart. He was _afraid_ for her. She played the part of his psychiatrist with a frailty that he could barely handle. He needs her; needs to tell her that he’s going to help her, that he can’t afford to see her crumble like a castle built on sand.

"I want to be supportive of you... after what happened."

"I'm not the only psychiatrist who's ever been attacked by a patient," she says softly, her hands in her lap as her thumb runs over it repeatedly; a nervous habit she’s claimed to have eradicated as a child when her mother would smack her and instruct her “not to fidget” and “be a lady.” She wants him to stop; she doesn’t want to talk to him about this right now. For him to even think that her first thought of his obsessive patient would be back to her attack is insulting to say the least. She doesn’t need to confirm his thoughts, because he elaborates.

"to even bring up the subject of an obsessive patient because of your traumatic experience."

"Hannibal... I'm your psychiatrist," Bedelia spoke. "You're not mine."

“I apologize, Dr. Du Maurier.” He says, getting up from his seat and straightening his suit. He knows she will not offer him wine tonight. He’s condescended; miscalculated the extent of her progress. He can now feel like she’s getting back to the one he knew. He was testing to see if she was offended, and now that she is he can step a little deeper into the ocean that is his lover. “Next week.” He says, walking out of her den, passing the orchids that reside in the vase on her endtable. She put them in water. They were making progress.

 

* * *

 

“You killed him.” She affirms strongly, and he can see that she is getting stronger herself. Her voice is frail, but no longer a whisper in her throat.

He goes on to tell her about Franklyn but the subject soon changes. He can tell she’s angry that he tried to play the part of being truly sad for killing his patient. He’s not just guilty about Franklyn and he knows she can sense it.

"Every person has an intrinsic responsibility for their own life, Hannibal. No one else can take on that responsibility. Not even you," She says, finally mustering the ability. She knows he is referring to her, and she can’t let him continue walking on eggshells around her. She wants to be like she used to be, but she can’t help but feel like things will never be the same; that he will never forgive her.

"Did you take responsibility when you were attacked by your patient?" he asks, wanting to hear the words from her lips. Simply getting her to talk about it is a blessing.

 "Yes," she says. "But I don't take responsibility for his death." She presented herself with regalia and poise, but beneath that he could see the neurotic fear; the bags that she hid with make-up. She wasn’t sleeping. Had she been to the Doctor recently? He wanted to be there for her, but as a fellow psychiatrist he knew that he couldn’t push her. Last time he pressed to much it nearly tore him apart; leaving as she slammed the bathroom door and gasped in her powder room from an anxiety attack. He sees her tense up once again and fears that she’s closing off to him once again, and he can’t afford to wait months again; he needs her now, needs her to be herself again.

“Nor should you,” He says firmly and notices that her fidgeting stops, and her hands come unclasped, one moving to rest over her midsection as she turns her head away from him. She knows he’s not referring to _his_ death, not to her attacker, but to the one who took life from her, from _them_ and she can’t bear to hear that, not yet; not ever. If he told her he didn’t blame her, then she would need to deal with the issue; with the fact that their child would never be born and she just couldn’t; she couldn’t seem to deal with anything, really. She couldn’t even run a proper practice, fearing the loss of her pointless life. If he forgave her, then soon she’d have to forgive herself, and that was just unacceptable. She got up then, a shutter wracking her body as she reaches out for armchair for stability.

“You haven’t been eating again, Bedelia.” He says, rising to grasp her arm for support. Her flesh heats at the touch and she would shake him off if it didn’t feel so good to have him touch her again; to touch him. She looks up at him, concern in his gaze, and she can’t believe this is the man that kills so many, or that she is the woman who once helped him in what felt like an eternity ago. She shakes her head. “I’m going to make you dinner tonight,” he affirms, rubbing her arm with his thumb through the lovely fabric of her fine suit. Of course, it won’t be a delicacy, but they were never greedy; there was no need to eat delicacy every night despite the fact that there were endless rude people inhabiting the world. Soon, she feels tendrils on her neck again and he disconnects, walking towards her kitchen in hopes that she wouldn’t shut him out or ask him to leave. He wanted her to let him in; at least to make sure her health was alright. He’d noticed she’d been losing weight over their past few sessions and he couldn’t help but to feel as though he was to blame. He needed to help her heal, so soon _they_ could heal together. If she’d just let him make her dinner…just that. He was waiting for her to tell him to “go away,” to lie once again and state that they were “only colleagues” and he began to hear soft gasps from behind him, realizing that she was once again having an anxiety attack just from simple contact. He continued to confidently walk to the kitchen, hoping she wouldn’t yell and run off again.

 He stops when he hears her heels on the floor; her breath is suddenly normal and it surprises him; she was always good at doing that. They click across the hard-wood floor, and she’s behind him, her front pressed against his back. Her hands are trembling as they reach around his midsection, barely able to touch all the way around. She is holding him lightly and he can tell it is bothering her but she’s always been strong.

“I would like that. Thank you.” He can feel her breathing in his scent as her curls rest against his strong back and he smiles, the first genuine one since he realized how useful Will Graham could be to them. 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal's had enough of dancing around carefully crafted lines with his psychiatrist. 
> 
>  
> 
> Story breaks from storyline (meaning books/tv) here and divulges into my own plot bunny. Principle characters are now being brought in.

_“I would like that. Thank you.” He can feel her breathing in his scent as her curls rest against his strong back and he smiles, the first genuine one since he realized how useful Will Graham could be to them._

            The buzzing in his pocket breaks him from his smile but he refuses to answer the call he’s receiving. Whoever it is can wait now; he was finally making progress with her. His phone goes silent and he relaxes until it begins its onslaught on their peace again. He feels her arms tense and slide off his body. She walks past him and into the kitchen, heels clicking across the hardwood floor. He wants to call out to her, but he knows her walls are up once again. She’s determined her actions as foolish. Instead of going after her once again he takes out the phone that continues to ring, revealing several missed calls. He answers this time, and it’s Will Graham calling for an  impromptu appointment. She’s handing him a glass of wine, drinking her own.

            “I understand.” She affirms, taking another drag from the blood-red liquid. She always was one for red wine.  She doesn’t want him to think she’s this _desperate,_ this _needy,_ but she feels better knowing that at least she could _touch_ him again without being reminded. She was never was before and she certainly won’t make a habit out of it now. The appointments were enough. He already thought she couldn’t handle her own mental health, she didn’t need to give him another reason. He catches a glimpse of the mark on her neck and immediately she notices, sliding her hair to cover the mark.

_“You have a beautiful neck.”_ She immediately shakes the memory and gets back to the conversation at hand. She needs to tell him; he must listen.

 “Be careful with Will Graham. He’s not what you thought.”

            “I am in control.”

* * *

 

"Whatever you're doing with Will Graham” she begins, pursing her lips, ready to deliver the word that she needs to be firm. He has to listen to her, if only for this. “Stop.” It’s one of the few times she’s been so dominant with him, but he recovers quite quickly. Jack had begun to get too close, and if he was too close, what did that mean for Will Graham? She’d had this conversation with him before, and he was simply sick of it, but she continued nonetheless. "You cannot function as an agent of friendship  _for_  a man who is disconnected from the concept  _as_  a man who is disconnected from the concept."  His eyes dart to hers, the mask flying over his eyes before he can show his shock in them. He finds it difficult to hide himself around her; like she has the zipper to his person-suit in her agile fingers and slides It down when she wants, revealing his true skin. He wonders when he began to put this suit on in front of her; probably around the same time she began to veil her neck. He’s always loved her hair, but now he wishes to push it all aside and leave bite marks along the pale skin that flushes when she’s nervous. Instead of snapping at her for her seemingly rude comment, he continues with their conversation.  
  
"I'm protecting Will from influence." She loses concentration at the moment, solely focused on his body…the way it was tensing. "I'm not comfortable telling Will that my very best attempts to help him may fail and that my loyalty to him and his treatment could be compromised." _That I failed you._ She’s alert to his words again then; she’s got him finally showing emotions. He claims that she’s the sick one but he’s fuming, pacing back and forth. They’ll discover him quickly if he begins to devolve and she refuses to let that happen.

 _"Then tell him something else,"_   She speaks then from between her teeth. He doesn’t get the message that he’s gotten too close; that he isn’t seeing Will Graham as an object of their use anymore. When he still looks unfazed at her words, she continues, aiming to get his attention. She _will_ have it. She’s tired of dancing around in circles with him even though she knows it’s of her own making. This was _her_ design and she despised it.   _This is about us, Hannibal. Our lives. Not Will Graham’s_ : "Agent Crawford also asked me about my attack."

He stops pacing and his voice is nearly a whisper, one that sends a shiver up her spine. “I see…what did you tell him?” For a moment she is truly terrified. She feels like she doesn’t know him anymore.  
         "Half-truths," she says. "That... a violent patient swallowed his tongue while he was attacking me. I didn't tell him how or... why... or _who_ was responsible."  At the end of their conversation he leaves without hesitation, irritated with her insinuations but more so with himself. She shouldn’t have had to fight for his attention; she shouldn’t be questioned about her attack by strangers. Jack Crawford had targeted her; he had the audacity to read her file and _attack_ her. She’d always been strong willed, constantly telling him to be careful when she could barely stop herself from shaking when she collected her mail. He hadn’t been careful enough and now Jack Crawford was coming to question _her._ He can’t be around her right now, knowing that he’s put her in danger. The half-truths will begin to pile if he doesn’t sort out these issues. It is time; he must tie up the loose ends so they can move on.

 

* * *

 

            He arrives at her door much later than his regular appointment time, calling her this time to remind her of his intended lateness. She knows why he hadn’t called last time, attempting to save her from the barrage of questioning from Jack Crawford. If he didn’t call her, she knew nothing…he couldn’t ask her anything. He waltzes into her living space-turned therapy room, remembering when people would come to her home and admire the art, the flowers, the _wine..her._ She smiles slightly, happy that he has listened and backed off of Will Graham. He created a replacement for his sister in Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs by mistake. She already pushed him to kill Abigail Hobbs and if Will kept influencing him, she might have to do it herself; that is, If she could ever step two feet out of her house. She knows he’ll never leave him alone, as apparent from his recent visit to the jail, but Will’s current state of jail time has given Hannibal time for reflection; it’s why he hasn’t called her for a week since their dinner. She’s worried that he’ll soon find his way on the other side of those bars if he continues with Will Graham, but he’s angry. In their previous conversation he attempted to bait her with Abigail Hobbs, failing miserably.

_“I never considered having a child…”_

He had hoped it would be an easy stab to open her up like one of his previous speciments. He should have known it would _never_ be easy with her, but he’d hope seeing his mourning would make her _remember;_ make her _feel_ again.

She knows he’ll be coming for her sanity soon enough…she knows. Their dinner previously had the potential of escalating quickly before she shut him down by warning him about his _pattern._ Distracting him had been her goal and he left soon after, leaving the sweet taste of ‘veal’ in her mouth. He’s been going easy on her for the past few sessions but she knows soon he’ll be fed up with this fake relationship they’ve created and perpetuated. Quite frankly she’s tired of pretending as well. She imagined their previous dinner would have tasted even sweeter secondhand from his lips. No. She needed to stop herself before she let herself go completely. This was the _only_ control she had left, but she felt like he was planning on making her lose that today. Soon as she sits down in the chair, he begins his onslaught.

"I lied when I told you I never considered having a child," He catches her eyes for a brief moment, but knows she is too polite to interrupt their conversation, so instead she runs her thumb over her hand. He needed to be honest; being their conversation with something to catch his attention like she had previously done to him. He brought this conversation up before, but she skimmed over it with ease, sliding well into the role of his psychologist. Will Graham is out of his mind now, successfully framed and locked away. She warned him of Will in their previous dinner conversation but he doesn’t think of that now. He thinks of  wishing to bring her to the Gallas; sit with her at the Opera. He misses the moments when she would sit next to him in her regalia, using her crystal-blues to focus briefly on the rude people in the crowd, and then running her soft fingers over his suit sleeve with a coy tug of her lips. He will move her past this, despite the consequences. He needed her emotion back, her passion. It was in there sometime, buried underneath all the nightmares and apathy. He will unzip the person suit she’s wearing, first by taking off his own.  He’s prepared to dig into this subject, pulling it from the pits of her soul and putting it on a platter, much like he did with Abigail. At least he got her to eat last week after their brief spat. It was the first time he’d cooked for her in ages. They need to stop this psychologist-patient act. Her lips are thin and small lines frame her face because she knows what’s coming next. She made it through their first conversation; his mock mourning over a child he had minimal feelings for. He has to continue, as much as he hates to do this to her. He misses the talks they used to have wrapped in elegant silk blankets, and he needs to talk to her; she’s the only one he can truly talk to. Will Graham was their science experiment together. Now, it seemed like it was all useless; she can’t leave the house and has little interest in anything. He wonders briefly what she does all day in this house, alone. Why is it that she’s still able to dress elegantly when the sun hasn’t drenched her skin for months? He knows she’s trying to maintain her dignity, to keep herself up for appearances because she feels like it’s all she has left. He continues, nonetheless, hoping to expose her. She needs it…needs to be herself again. “5 months ago is the first time I ever considered it.” He delivers the words with a shutter of his lips, something she hasn’t heard since that day and she can’t bear it. His emotions were always the hardest for her to deal with and she will not be toyed with. He will not manipulate her like this, but his eyes catch her off guard. The windows to the soul, she was once told, and his glistening pupils were telling her that he was not playing with her like he had Will Graham. She can’t. She just can’t.

 “You…” She begins coolly, closing her eyes for a moment and bringing her fingers to the bridge of her nose to regain her composure. “This is not prope-” He mustn’t let her regain her composure, so he continues immediately.

“He would be one month now-”

“I am _not_ doing this.” She sighs with frustration, running her hand through her hair, breaking one of the curls which slides easily back into place. She uncrosses her legs and attempts to leave the room, only for him to rise in front of her. She knew he wasn’t going to let her past, and her fists ball at her sides, feeling the fury rise like bile in her throat. “You’re _not_ my psychiatrist, Hannibal.” She sidesteps to leave the room, as he anticipates her movements and mirrors her. The quick movement startles her and she steps back for a moment before attempting to move again. She feels so empty; She wants her words to hurt him like knives, and she knows exactly where to stab him. They are _nothing_. “We are only colleagues.” She lies, knowing that it will infuriate him beyond all belief, similar to how he’s done to her. He wasn’t the only psychologist; not the only one capable of simple manipulation.

He grabs her shoulders then, sick of dancing along imaginary lines; climbing walls only to have them built higher. He feels like the World is crumbling; their standing on castles made of sand, and he needs her the most now. He shakes her like a soda can and can’t control his anger . “We are _anything but colleagues.”_ He spits and her eyes shake in their sockets, focusing on his. She thought she could deal with this side of him but her vision begins to swim and her knees give a quick shake before stabilizing. Her windpipe suddenly feels really tight but she feels his fingers tightly pressed to her collar bone and shoulder blades.  God, she thinks he’s going to _kill_ her. He brings his voice down when he notices her terror, but refuses to let her go; to return to her room and stack her walls with more mortar, for him to climb over; to lock herself away from him again. “We nearly had a _child_ together.” At this, her hands grasp his arms through the pristine suit and she tries to push away from him, her face flushing pink.

“Stop,” She commands, with a roar in her voice he hasn’t heard in months.

“You can’t avoid him, Bedelia.” Her head shakes and she pushes his chest. He finally lets her go and she stumbles back, trying to get as far away from him as possible and grasps her couch, gasping for air.

“Stop!” Her shaking hand reaches up and moves through her curls, a futile attempt to calm herself. Her voice is stern and commanding when she finally feels it’s safe to speak again. She is in control. “Leave.Now.” When she doesn’t hear his feet or the telltale sound of her heavy door closing, she spins around, livid. Her neck is slightly showing and he can see the hints of red slashed across.

“I will no-” The slap to his face stops his words.

“He was our son!” She explodes, wrathfully hurrying over to the flowers he had sent, as if she didn’t just assault him. Her voice is rough and dry when she snarls , anger plastered on her beautiful features, “And you didn’t care.” Her hand sweeps violently across the table, sending the vase crashing to the floor of and the orchids tumbling over his feet. He strides over to meet her and grabs her struggling wrist, tugging her toward him amidst her protest. He runs his hand over her long sunbeam hair and flicks it back to reveal the jagged red scar that taints the angelic color of her flesh. His voice comes out like a canon, booming over the whole room, as his face contorts in anger.

“I didn’t mean for _this_ to happen!” The sudden coolness on her neck is alarming and her eyes widen in an attempt to hide it from him; from herself. Flashes swim in her vision and she must push them away, push him away.

            _“Help, oh God, please help me” she cried, calling for a god she didn’t believe in._

_Hands around her neck, pain stabbing in her abdomen, blood seeping into her underwear._

“Get off of me!” She shrugs aggressively away from his touch, wanting to put up more a fight, to beat at his chest, but her voice is raw when she responds softly, tears running down her face.

_“H-Hannibal…what’s happening?” She moans as she slides down the wall, his arms reaching to brace her weight. Her attacker is gone, but her vision is in stars and she can’t seem to see anything, only his eyes. One of her eyes feels bigger than the other and her body seems to be on fire. She’s slipping in and out of consciousness, but she’s suddenly aware of the trickle down her legs and into her carpet, shoes long kicked off in battle. “You can’t save him.” She grabs out for his arm, and lets out a small gasp of pain before slipping into the darkness._

  She means to yell at him again, but instead “I let him _die_ , _”_ tumbles out of her mouth. He pulls her close to him, wrapping her in his arms and breathing in her scent deeply.

“You did not. It wasn’t your fault.” He whispers into her hair. “We cannot keep hiding from each other.” She is reminded of their words spoken in hushed voices under her covers. She feels empty. She misses him. Her ears suddenly perk at a clanging noise and she sees a form come into the panel of her window. Her tiny form stirs against his chest, and he lets loosens his grip, only to realize that she’s walking towards her garden.

He turns around and sees nothing, but is quick to follow on her heels. She reaches the storm door revealing her garden sporting a newly grown red fern.

“Ms. Lounds.” She states, stopping the curly red head from her attempted getaway, her clothes snagged on the thorns of her plants. She even had difficulty coming to her once loved garden, which is now overgrown, vines climbing up the side of her house.  She begins to quake and stills herself.  She takes several steps out onto the cobblestones she paved herself, as Hannibal stood in the doorway, watching with fascination as she fought with her body, attempting to stop the quakes that rattled her in fear. Bedelia smiled as she walked to the now trembling Lounds, crouching down to grab her sweater with agile fingers and remove the thorn vines that had kept her in place. “These plants can be tricky, Ms. Lounds,” Bedelia says as looks up at the woman and notices that she unclenches her fists from the guard that runs around her back patio and garden. She continues:

 “They used to snag me all the time, but I came up with a trick to stop them from sticking me.” Her voice is soft and fragile and it fits from the information she wheedled out of her source. She talked as if someone’s hands were still wrapped around her neck. Freddie laughed nervously and straightened her sweater. At least she was around this Bedelia woman. She knew Hannibal was a monster, she just didn’t have any evidence. She was sure Hannibal would have harmed her if he caught her again, so she decided to make small talk with this woman who’d inevitably saved her. This poor, kind soul.

“What do you do to stop the snags?” She humored the woman. Honestly, she needed to work on her sleuthing skills. These easy finds recently had made her rusty. She had her sources, knew when he visited this woman. She’d attempted to tail him before but when he knocked on her door, meal in hand, he found her hiding place immediately. Needless to say she left tire marks on the street. How was he always a step in front of her? He was hiding something, and he brought the frail woman in front of her into it. She hadn’t seen anything on this ‘stakeout’ but Hannibal hugging the woman who appeared to be crying. Why was she crying as his therapist? What had he done to convince this woman to be his therapist? Had he been her strangler? The woman was shaking from being around him, and Freddie felt bad for her.  She thought for sure she was more careful this time in her sneaking, but the previously trembling woman who’d saved her from Hannibal’s wrath found her without missing a beat. Must be the red hair. Suddenly, a thought hit her when she caught the woman’s icy blue eyes, cold and unnerving. Her eyes were just like Doctor Lector’s, depthless and unsettling. She _must_ be in on it, Freddie Lounds pieced her thoughts together. Whatever evil he was doing, _she knew._ There was nowhere to go, the young journalist realized glancing around the darkened gated garden. She waited anxiously for the woman to rise and give her a cryptic answer, sending her on her way like Hannibal had once done. Bedelia gave her a soft smile then, rising to her full height from her previous crouched position.

“The key is pull them before they grow thorns.”

Before she knows it the kind Dr. Du Maurier’s tiny hand is on her face, squeezing. She tries to scream, but the falling sensation is short and her head soon meets the stone.

Freddie Lounds head collides with the ground, knocking her out cold; if she was awake she would feel the sensation of being punched repeatedly, but alas, she feels nothing; sees nothing. Bedelia lets out a small huff of exhaustion and grabs the woman’s shoulders,her body like a ragdoll; head falling back uncontrollably. She bashes the woman on the stones of her garden over and over, letting out the anger and aggression she’s felt for months. About her _child,_ about _Hannibal_. The tattler’s blog has been quite insulting lately and she vowed to kill the woman if she could ever leave her home, but the woman had the audacity to come to her. How _dare_ she interrupt them! How _dare_ she! This was her _home._ She felt _safe_ here and she tried to ruin it, _ruin him._ Her blue orbs were wide and crazed, her hands balled in the fabric of the woman’s sweater. She would not let her take _him_ from her. He was _hers!_ Rude to her core, she had to die. The blood begins to seep into the grooves of the stone when she stops, examining her work. She turns to Hannibal who stands in the doorframe, looking at the now deceased Freddie Lounds. She rises to her feet, brushing her hair out of her face with the back of her hand.

“That was quite direct for you, Bedelia.”

“What she wrote about you was despicable.” He grabs her wrist and pulls her close, his lips meeting softly with hers at first, before he moves his tongue into her mouth, eliciting a moan.

Her hands are on his chest, removing his suit jacket as they move backward into her living room. She jumps him, his hands moving quickly to cup her firm butt in his hands, as her legs wrap around his back. She aggressively smashes her face against his, shoving her tongue into his mouth. She grabs his lip with her teeth and pulls back, gasping for air after she’s drawn blood.

“Bedroom.”  

He runs his hands over her body as they ascend the stairs and kiss with desperation. His shirt is soon added to the stairs ascend, his fingers working the buttons of her blue blouse as he deepens the kisses. Pasionate. Desperate. _Hungry._ The door to her room slides open and he pushes her to the bed, climbing atop her. She lifts her hips and he drums her hip bone with his fingers before sliding off her skirt, revealing black lace underneath. She’s reminded of her neck when she notices his eyes are on it and moves to cover it when his hand stops her.

“It’s beautiful-You’re beautiful.” She looks apprehensive, but moans his name when his teeth nibble on her collar bone, tongue sliding up and over the scar, making a swirling motion when he gets to the jagged mark. His fingers slide into her and she forces her head back into the lush pillows of her bed. She tightly shuts her eyes and grabs his arms, pushing the flashes of memory that attempt to ruin the pleasure with success. Soon, she’s begging him to enter her and her fingers are working at the belt of his dress pants.

She pushes him on his back and slides carefully on him, her hands planted on both sides of his toned stomach. He groans when she begins to move and gasps when her rhythm becomes a quick pounding movement up and down. She throws her head back, hair sliding over her shoulders like golden rivulets as she shouts, her hands splayed against his chest, and eyes rolled back in her head. He grabs full handfuls of her butt and aggressively forces her down on him once more and her eyes widen as he closes his. She feels warmth for the first time in months, and smiles in ecstasy. Sliding from him, she positions herself next to him, his hand caressing her face.

            “You’re the only one I can show my true self to.” He spoke, knowing that she already heard the words before. His fingers trailed along her face and tipped her chin up so she could look him in the eyes. She needed to hear them again. Words like “I love you” were trivial and simple. People loved their homes, their food. It didn’t express how they felt about each other.

            “I’m sorry you’ve been hiding for so long… … I’ve missed you.” He kisses her slowly and sensually. Anyone who would describe Hannibal Lector as a sociopath was terribly wrong. He felt. It just took the right fingers to take off his person suit. He broke the kiss and looked into her eyes, ones that finally conveyed emotion like they once had.

 

            “I believe Ms. Lounds is getting cold, my love.” He begins, moving out of the silk sheets of her bed. Their dinner would be delicious, although unfortunately for Ms. Lounds, she wasn’t vegetarian in death. Tsk Tsk, such a hypocrite.

            “Would you like red or white?” She asks, sliding on her clothes and fixing her hair.

            “I think something pink.”

             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: There’s trouble afoot when Will enters the picture once again. Be prepared for a more vivid/violent flashback of Bedelia’s in the next chapter along with more prominent addressing of their almost child together. Next chapter will finally reveal the details of her attack. Thanks for all the support! Keep reviewing and I’ll keep writing 


	5. Savor Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedelia/Hannibal comfort. Bedelia gets reminded of her attack in full through some of Hannibal's assistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that there is a substantial flashback. Many apologies for the lateness of this chapter...it's been a long month. Please read and tell me what you think

_“I believe Ms. Lounds is getting cold, my love.” He begins, moving out of the silk sheets of her bed. Their dinner would be delicious, although unfortunately for Ms. Lounds, she wasn’t vegetarian in death. Tsk Tsk, such a hypocrite._

_“Would you like red or white?” She asks, sliding on her clothes and fixing her hair._

_“I think something pink.”_

* * *

 

            As he passed her, walking outside into the cold, she stopped at her hall closet, quickly turning the knob with ease. It had been too long since she’d used this particular piece. Grabbing the gray suitcase, she extended the handle and wheeled it toward the back door, where he was making the necessary preparations. She moved to assist him, but his hand rested gently on hers, telling her to stop. Before she met him, the heavy lifting had been a real bother, but he was such a gentleman.

She smiled coyly over her glass of wine as he used the hose to clean the pooling red liquid off of the stones that made up her garden. She did need new fertilizer, but that would come later. Knowing that they couldn’t eat Ms. Lounds at the moment was a disappointment, but protocols had to be maintained; she would never rush him with his cooking. The wine swirled in its glass when she softly placed it on the marble of her countertop, getting up and meeting him, his face sprinkled lightly with sweat. She knows he has to get Ms. Lounds to their safety house before anyone begins looking but she wants him to stay; no, she wants to go with him. Opening the front door, he pulls the suitcase with each, his long, lean muscles hidden safely under the suit jacket. He doesn’t wait for her; doesn’t expect her to follow. She closes her eyes and rationalizes with herself, telling herself things she had once told patients. Why did it have to be so hard? It should be easy when she was around him.

            _The World has done you no harm._ Deep breath. _You can’t keep hiding from him._ Deep breath. _You’re not as young as you were. You’re replaceable._ Shuttering breath.

            She closes her eyes briefly and takes a step out of the front door, her heel clicking on the cobblestone. _He’s dead._ After her first step the wheels to the luggage stop abruptly, and he turns around, shock splattering his face for a moment. Another step. _Look at what you’ve become._ Another step. _Don’t you want to be with him?_ Her hands are shaking, just as they were when she went out on her back porch. The tree branches look like hands and they’re coming for her. _Fool._ She stills her hands and raises her chin, attempting to raise her mask to

 “You don’t have to pretend, Bedelia.” She stops in her place, her eyes focusing on his.

 “I am _not_ _pretending_.” She says with venom. She hates how he can tear her to pieces with a single breath. She was once a strong woman. And although she was now the husk of that very woman, she still had what was left of her dignity. She would do this. She had to.

She sits in his car and takes a deep breath, sliding her hand to her stomach as a protective gesture; she catches the movement and jerks the hand away, disguising it poorly as an effort to instead yank the seatbelt across her body.

_“He kicked,” She said in surprise, pausing from cutting the green peppers for their meal and moving her hands immediately to her stomach. He looks up and sees that delight really does flatter her features. Her eyes look brighter as she gazes at him and her lips reveal the beautiful smile behind them. From the time they’ve been together he knows she rarely smiles. They are alike in that manner. When she does smile, she does so with her eyes. With her teeth. Smiling isn’t just about the teeth, but when she’s elated, her pink gums make an appearance. He wasn’t particularly happy about her current state, about the difficulties it has brought about, but the smile on her face tells him that he should be. The little guy’s growing on him. He’d never considered being a father before, but she’s made him think of it. She crosses the small distance between them and takes his large hand in her incredibly small one, placing it on the small mound that is her pregnant stomach. She’s barely showing, but he suspects the thick fabric of her blazers help. Her running routines couldn’t hurt either. He waits, his hand perched on her stomach. And waits. For a moment, he thinks she just imagined it. Suddenly his hand twitches atop her stomach._

_She sees his gums_

_She feels another flutter, like a butterfly flapping its wings._

She is staring straight in front of her. As a woman once praised for her clinical detachment, she is now separating from herself. She refuses to acknowledge her trembling hands and body, simply telling him to “drive” in a guttural voice. He drives.

She knows this route; traveled it for almost ten years of her life. She’s not ready for this. She can’t show him that. He will think that she’s weak. The weak _die_ at his hands but he never kills her. She wonders why. She’d been a socialite once, a respected Doctor of her field and now sitting in a car brought her anxiety.

Her hands reach for the buttons on the door. She needs air, needs to fall out of the speeding vehicle, and needs to feel the pavement rub her skin until she can no longer feel pain. But she wants to feel. Feel his skin against hers like simply moments before, when it felt like things were back to normal. When he ran his hands through her hair and she rested her face in the crook of her neck, felt the pulsing of his carotid arteries beneath her lips. It had felt like _before, before, before;_ but it wasn’t. When he was inside her, running his hands over her body and taking in her scent she could almost forget. He’s eyeing her and she can see through clouded vision her chest heaving up and down; she’s hyperventilating, panicking as her eyes focus on the buildings they’re passing. She finally hears it herself and tries to force her body to submit to her will; which it refuses, instead deciding to make her gasps deeper and more ragged.

“This was to be expected.” He reasons, keeping his hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, unfazed. She hates him sometimes, with his calm exterior. She wonders if he remembers her at times like this; how she used to be. Does he consider her an experiment like Will Graham? She refuses. She feels her anger bubble and she wants to yell at him

She looks around with trepidation, eying the buildings as they pass her quickly. The doors are locked, and the seatbelt suddenly feels too tight around her body. Her quaking hands find their way to the belt buckle and aggressively throw the strap away from her.

“Relax.” He says simply, paying no attention to her apparent anxiety attack. They pass the set of offices and suddenly the images she had worked so hard to repress are returning to her mind. She can’t stop them as they burst into her mind like rushing water.

_“Looks like a boy.” The Doctor said and she can feel the cold liquid across her stomach_

It was all her fault. The whole thing. Everything. She ruined everything. This car is too confined. There’s nowhere to run, no escape. She should have stayed back. Should have waited to die in her home; death would come eventually. He would eventually send someone for her again.

“Why did you send Jaime for me?” She suddenly asks and the car jerks to the side.  His face is shocked and it immediately makes sense to him. She’s not just a woman recovering from an attack on her person, but one recovering from what she believed to be the ultimate betrayal.

“I did not. I- ,” he stumbles over his words and she would be shocked if her body didn’t feel so relaxed suddenly. Instead she lean her head against the window and looks at him as he gathers himself, eyes still positioned on the road. “I wanted to save him, Bedelia, but…your neck.”

 Her vision begins to swim and she remembers….realizes that she hadn’t had enough wine to keep the memories from swarming in her head. She's remembering what she forced herself to forget. They begin to rush in as quickly as the buildings, which seem to be blurry now. It’s all coming back to her and she realizes that she can’t move her head from the window. She’s been wrong this whole time. He never meant to harm her; he wasn’t lying. She begins to form words of apology but finds that her mouth feels like it’s full of cotton.

“Y-you put something…in my wine,” she slurs she stares blankly at him and begins to remember, her eyelids lazily dragging to cover her eyes.

* * *

 

“You’re injured.”  He announced, reaching for her hand, which she shook away promptly.  “You need to be more careful, now.”

 “You do not need to remind me.”

 “What would you have done if I hadn’t come, Bedelia?” She runs her hand through her hair, as she opens their closet door, extracting her coat. Why did he want to have this conversation before they were supposed to leave? She was looking forward to this show- he knew it, knew he was ruining this for her because he was angry. Why did he have to be so passive-aggressive? She should have been able to handle her perfectly fine; it was simply her rude receptionist, but a sudden bout of dizziness got her a slap to the face before he showed up unexpectedly and handled her. Why was she still having dizziness in her second trimester anyway? It was completely ridiculous. She had stopped her nose from bleeding on the ride home, but the burning sensation on her left cheek told her that Julia was heavy handed. Bitch.

 “You followed me to her house” Her words were scathing. “And I certainly don’t need another person stalking me.”

 “You’ve noticed Jaime, then”

 “I’m pregnant; not blind. Your old patient is persistent. When was he released?” Her agile fingers bring the elegant coat over her shoulders and start with the buttons. When he’s silent, she returns to their previous conversation: “I’ve already apologized. I should have been more careful.” She closes her eyes briefly to fight off the dizziness and he instantly notices.

 “You haven’t been eating properly.” So now he was her personal nutritionist. Did he want to start packing her boxed lunches too? ‘Please, could I have it on rye with a side of Fava beans?’ she would say. Why did he have to bring up food? He cooked so well. She was hungry, ravished even. She hadn’t eaten since early that morning when she heard her assistant blabbing on the phone about her weight gain and her unborn child, which she thought she had hidden quite well. ‘Probably froze his dick off,’ she heard just as she was leaving for a bottle of water. Her assistant, a temp, stopped dramatically and hung up the phone, pointing her head toward the keyboard and beginning to type.  Fury, oh fury.  His words brought her out of her thoughts: “We’re not going out tonight,” he says, placing hands on her shoulders first, then gently snaking them around to bring the coat off her shoulders. Her eyebrow rises to her hairline, even though she knows that he can’t see it, and her body tenses.

 “Excuse me?” Her face is incredulous, and she turns on him quickly, staring him in the eye. It’s moments like this when he realizes how tiny she actually is. Her head is tilted upward so she can stare him down, and she places her hands on her waist. “Since when do you decide for me?” He wants to tell her that her decisions have been rather poor lately, but he holds his tongue, knowing soon she will soon catch wind of  Dr. Covoberos’ ‘mysterious’ disappearance. They were much too old to be spreading rumors and he’d rather his child and its’ paternity stay out of a betting pool. He doesn’t want to fight. He wants her to lie down; to stop worrying so much. She’s showing now, despite hiding cleverly under her suits, and he knows the questions from her colleagues are bothering her.

“You need to rest. I’ll put in your leave tomorrow.”

 “You don’t have the right to tell me what I need, Doctor Lecter.”

 “Don’t I?” He questions still retaining his calm exterior. She’s pushing his buttons and she’s well aware. He decides to play her game and looks her up and down before pausing on her abdomen, knowing that she’s watching him closely. He’s trying to bait her and he knows she’s going to take it. “You are in no condition to be seeing patients,” He says with a little more vigor.

“And when did you make this analysis, hmm? Do tell!” She says sarcastically, rounding the kitchen island, intent on continuing before he cuts her off.

 “You could have been killed our child!” His body tenses and he grits his teeth “Why won’t you just listen?” Finally she feels her temper rise and her open palm comes how hard on the marble kitchen top.

 “If it was up to you, I wouldn’t even be pregnant.” Flames are dancing in her eyes, her feelings written on her face which normally veiled anger so well. She feels brief pain in her abdomen but pushes it away. After the words climb out of her throat she regrets them. She’s noticed how he touches her tenderly, how he smiled wholeheartedly when they were alone. “You’re treating me like a child and I ca-”

 “I will s-”

 “I’m not your sister!” She finally shouts, covering her mouth with the back of her hand as soon as the words tumble out. In a moment’s notice he’s crossed the short distance between them, wrapping his hand around her neck tightly. He looks into her eyes and sees his own feral ones in them, immediately letting go. As she gasps, clutching her stomach, her eyes are wide and on him. “I-I’m sor”

 “You’re a fool.” He spits, grabbing his coat and slamming the door behind him.

 She stumbles to her bed and tries to forget the piercing sensation in her stomach, rubbing it to comfort her son. They would continue to question. To say she was unfit for parenthood-cold, too callous to bring up a child or have a man. He would love their son, like she did- she could already begin to see it. Why had she held his first thoughts against him? He was being logical when he suggested it. They could never be a family; have a normal life. Her head landed hard on the pillow and she absently rubbed her stomach, trying to clear the room of his seething anger that soaked her skin like a scolding hot rag on her forehead. He would be a great father, wouldn’t he?  It isn’t what they planned but-She would call him tomorrow and apologize.

* * *

 

He’s outside her building, sulking in his car. She called him earlier and he watched as it went to voicemail. They needed to prepare for the transition they needed to make. One didn’t just go from murdering the rude to play dates with baby. What, would they raise their child to murder the rude from infancy? ‘Timothy, if someone takes your blocks, slit their throat.’ He would say, ‘Atticus (her idea for an ideal name) you drain a body very carefully, it’s not like when you pour juice from your Sippy-cup’ he could hear her voice in his head. He chuckled softly at the notion, at them being so quaint. He watched as Jaime slowly paced outside the building, contemplating whether he should enter the building. For a man who constantly worried about rejection he sure was persistent, obviously ignoring the warning Hannibal had given him days before about leaving Dr. Du Maurier alone. It infuriated him that he couldn’t claim her as his own, to tell his patient that Bedelia Du Maurier belonged to _him._ He didn’t know any longer. His old patient would go home, just like he had done the other days. He would kill him if not for that ankle tracker. The police couldn’t monitor a man if he was sitting in their jail cell, and they thought think ankle tracker would keep him out of trouble. The man stopped his pacing and walked away from the office building; Hannibal turned on his car engine, ready to leave. Why was he even here after their conversation yesterday? She frustrated him to the core, but he wouldn’t let her believe he didn’t care for her- She wasn’t a fool; far from it.  Just as he began to pull off he caught Jaime in his peripheral, violently turning and rushing for the doors of the building, flinging them open with both hands.

“Didn’t know he had it in him,” Hannibal whispered to himself. Another thing to add to his journal. Turns out Jaime made progress after all. He still wanted to kill him for even looking in Bedelia’s general direction. He would have done so yesterday if she’d asked, despite the consequences he would have found a way- if she hadn’t been so persistent in telling him that she didn’t need his help. An ankle was removable easier than many thought-it was even pop culture now because of that ‘Saw’ movie. He sighed. She said she could take care of herself and he wasn’t going to rush to her rescue again, certainly not while he was still licking the salt out of his wounds. He wouldn’t let her win this battle. In the beginning he’d feared the change their child would bring, encouraged her to get rid of him. Could they still cover their affair when she had a baby?  Now, he wanted nothing more than to raise their son. To give him the life that had been so cruelly snatched from him and his sister. Jaime would help him, he knew. She would lock her doors after hearing the screaming receptionist and call the police. She would worry for their child and immediately go on her leave like he’d wanted. They would get away from her. She would protect herself. He didn’t want her dealing with unstable patients, putting herself at such risk for nothing. She was worth more than their useless lives. So, he let him go. She wouldn’t have to get her hands dirty. Jaime would walk into her office and would be stopped by her receptionist. The woman would probably receive a beating but she- he stopped in his tracks. Julia was her receptionist on Mondays and Tuesdays (before he’d killed her) and Mary-Kay worked the other days of the week. Shit. Tuesday. He’d suddenly gotten a sick feeling in his stomach when his phone rang.

“Hannibal,” she began “I need to talk with you, I’m-” He’d heard a loud bang

“Bedelia?” He barked into the phone, bolting from his car and into the building.

* * *

 

She was calling to apologize; hopefully he would answer this time. She needed to tell him that she didn’t mean what she’d said. She held the receiver and paced the length of her desk. Her stomach growled and her head ached and she stopped pacing, absently rubbing over the small bulge, trying to soothe herself. She shouldn’t have skipped dinner and breakfast this morning and her son was going to make sure she knew he was hungry. Finally, he answered and just as she began to speak the doors to her office were thrown open.

He’d sent him

He actually sent Jaime after her

She was just another one of his experiments. He didn’t care for her, for _them_. The tables had turned. The rude were to be exterminated and he’d actually *sent* him for her. She was a fool indeed. A fool to think they were anything more than colleagues; that he actually cared for her. How could he?

She instantly scanned her mind for everything she’d known about his patient with a deep-seated infatuation with her. The files she’d read zipped through her mind quickly and she knew his age, height, weight, and ticks. He’d idolized Hannibal and constantly tried to mimic his life, even entering into a psych program at the local community college. She’d known Hannibal aided in the attack on his mother through suggestion after he’d seen the way he’d lusted after Bedelia when she came to his office once.

‘ _You’re attracted to Dr. Du Maurier.’_

_‘I-Is she yours?’ He stammered, shifting in his seat and shifting his eyes._

_‘She’s just a colleague.” He’d responded, knowing that his relationship with her was unprofessional, and wanting to play with his client a little bit. He would have killed him a bit later but his psychotic break took over, putting him in a mental facility for killing his mother._

“Dr. Du Maurier,” He grinned, and she placed the receiver on her desk, moving her agile fingers over the letter opener and closing her hand around it. Mother told him he’d never find a woman-that he was weak, but he’d finally come to claim his woman. She was beautiful, and intelligent. Dr. Lector had warned him away before but he wasn’t here now. He would surpass his therapist. Where Dr. Lector was simply a colleague of Dr. Du Maurier, he would be a lover. Mother was wrong.

“Hello, Jaime.”

“Co-could I take you out on a date, Dr. Du Maurier?” He asked shyly, pushing his long hair from his face and looking away from her. He’d been committed after he killed his mother but apparently 4 years was enough rehabilitation. Her head was pounding and his eyes looked her up and down, immediately noticing the hand she had placed over her stomach.

She grasped the letter opener tightly behind her back as she saw his face morph into one of rage. She steps backwards and her heel slides to the side, making her lose her leverage. She grabs the desk for support with her free hand, so worried about falling and he’s on her, ripping her suit jacket open and exposing the shirt underneath. 

“You’re pregnant. With * _his_ * child.” He shakes her against the wood with both hands, seething with rage. “We could have had-” She stabs him in the arm with the opener, sending him recoiling and hissing in agony. She gasps for breath and begins to run from the room when he grabs her hair with his free hand, yanking her backward and into the desk, her stomach banging against the unforgiving wood. “Ah,” she shouts, trying to hold her stomach as he roughly man-handles her. There’s pain in her stomach, and cramping. He’s behind her now, pulling at her skirt.

“The years I’ve waited. I’m NOT weak!”

“Help, oh God, please help me” she cried, calling for a god she didn’t believe in. She screams, as her hands splay across the wood, pushing things from the desk in an attempt to grab another weapon, her letter opener now in his hand.

There’s banging at her office door and she can hear Hannibal shouting her name.

She maneuvers from his grasp with skill, but freezes when she feels jagged pain in her stomach, her hand already perched underneath it for support. He has her in his possession again. “It’s all ruined, now!” He’s shouting, and his voice is booming in her ears. Her knees buckle but he keeps her up, grasping her throat with both hands again and squeezing the life out of her, the letter opener in his hand, removed from her previous assault. She can feel the slick metal press into her skin deeper and deeper as it ruins her milky flesh. She tries to close her eyes to blink away the stars forming but the pressing from his restraint is too much. She’s bug-eyed, clawing and kicking at him, her heels flying off her feet and toes flexed in protest. Suddenly she hears _his_ voice and her attacker lets her neck go, but not before tossing her like a rag doll across the room, where she slumps against the wall, whimpering softly from the pain in her stomach, her vocal cords unable to produce much more. She can finally breathe again and gasps before she realizes her neck is bleeding quite profusely. She’s going to die. She can hear _*him*_ screaming, but it’s muffled like there’s wool stuffed deep in her ears. She hears someone crash into something and then Hannibal’s voice. He came for her. Came for them. Realization hits her as she feels blood pool in her underwear and slide slick down her creamy legs. _Them. Them. Them. No, just her._

He’s suddenly by her side now, and her body no longer resists the instinct to fall.

 “H-Hannibal…what’s happening?” She moans as she slides down the wall, his arms reaching to brace her weight. Her attacker is gone, but her vision is in stars and she can’t seem to see anything, only his eyes, but their blurry, like she’s looking through dirty glass. One of her eyes feels bigger than the other and her body seems to be on fire. She’s slipping in and out of consciousness, but she’s aware of the gushing down her legs and into her carpet, mingling poorly with her freshly painted red toenails, shoes long kicked off in battle. “You can’t save him.” She chokes out desperately wanting for him to say something…anything. Disagree. Tell me you’re a surgeon with the best abilities. You can save him can’t you? She grabs out for his arm, but his hands are now on her neck, just like _his_ were. He’s finishing the job. No…she’s coming to a revelation in her dream. He’s not trying to kill her. He’s saving her, like the Hobbs girl. “I ruined everything,” she whispers. His hands are around her neck and she can finally focus on his eyes see the regret in them. They looked shocked and scared-something she’s never seen before and she can hear him calling her name, shouting for her to stay awake. She feels wetness on her face and his eyes are watering. Why would he cry over her?

“Bedelia”

“Please,” her eyes lazily close as she feels droplets hit her cheeks.

“Bedelia”

 

* * *

 

“Bedelia.”

She awakens crying out; her body rigidly sitting up despite the constraint of the many blankets artfully arranged on her form and his arm is draped over her shoulder. She’s been foolish. She immediately hunches over, her head in her hands as the sobs wrack through her body like waves. She leans into him, remembering how it felt when she used to share a bed with him; how warm and comforting he was. How much time she’s-they’ve wasted.

“You needed the sleep,” he reasons immediately, referring to the fact that he laced her drink. “We’ve been at the cabin for nearly 12 hours.” Probably the melatonin she kept far in the back of her cabinet but never dared using. She couldn’t bear being stuck with her dreams, unable to rise from them as the nightmares circled endlessly. It’s morning and the sun is attempting to poke through their blinds.

“I-I repressed my attack. Tried so hard _never_ to remember everything, and then- then you were by my side holding me in your bloodied hands and you were crying and” she pauses to gather herself. “And I wanted you to be angry with me for so long. I wanted you to _kill me_ but,” she reasons with him, drying her eyes and adamantly apologizing for her recent behavior, apologies he refuses to accept. She felt normal when he was inside her. It was like before. She actually believed for so long that he had sent his patient after her as punishment. “I’m a fool.”

“You’re no fool, Bedelia,” He replies, using his fingers to bring the long ringlets of her hair from her face. She can’t have hair plastered to her face; it reminds him too much of when he found her, when he failed her and their child. “We’re making progress.”

“I had a panic attack from leaving the house,” she laughs miserably

“You know the effects of agoraphobia.”

“I-…” She runs her hands through her hair and breaths in deeply, a habit that he knows she uses in an attempt to calm herself. “I feel like a prisoner in my own body and- and I” Her lips are on his, before withdrawing. The need is evident in her voice as she straddles him, her kisses leaving marks up his neck “I want you to make me feel myself again.” He grabs her shoulders and maneuvers her off of him, pushing her down on the layered blankets. Her eyes are fixed with his and he knows that she needs therapy; that sex will not solve the problem, but he can’t deny her. Not when she looks at him like that and kisses him with such ferocity. He pushes into her and feels the warmth around him, feels her hands on his shoulders and her nails in his back as he continues his quick rhythm. ‘Ah,ah,ah,’ she’s saying over and over as he rocks the headboard of their once shared-shared again bed. He feels her smooth body and remembers when she was carrying his child. He feels her whole body spasm and cry out in ecstasy and for a moment he can forget. He closes his eyes. Forget the time and remember how they used to be.  He can remember the woman who spoke of proper regulations as he pushed her against his bookshelf and left marks down her neck. He can remember her sinking the blade into Riley Jenson and then offering to help carry her body. Mostly, he can remember the woman who showed her gums when she smiled and dragged his hand to their child. Ever the gentleman, he waits until she finishes before finishing himself, coming inside her. She pulls him closer and he lays there, on top of her as they both gasp for air. He’d have that woman back one day. And when he did, he could find himself again. For now he had his memories and he knew she had hers.

She was making progress and soon, she’d resume her role. They would be happy again. “The Soapbox Seducer” last struck two years ago and was due to strike again, given the pattern pointed out by a fresh-eyed FBI agent 6 years ago. She was never one to be late. He didn’t like it when the media created his moniker but he did believe that hers was quite clever, although she was much more than a seductress. Maybe they’d plan a dinner party, if she was up to it; they couldn’t put Ms. Lounds to waste, now could they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find out in the next chapter who Bedelia Du Maurier really is.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry for the timing of this chapter- life has been difficult. Anyway, please read and review. This chapter begins with insight into Bedelia's past.
> 
> I wrote a lot of this chapter back in March, so you could imagine my surprise when I saw flowers as a theme on Hannibal. Thank you for everyone who reads and reviews my story, despite the delay. I should have the next chapter by Mid-May or earlier depending on the responses I receive and how far I get in my mini-thesis haha

**1974**

“Bee! C’mere, Bee. Check this out!”

“Coming Becca,” the young 8 year old girl answered, running down the hill and through the forest. If she just followed the echoes of the voice, she would get there soon. Suddenly she saw red glistening in the light and knew she’d found her friend.

“Look what I found,” the girl turned around excitingly. There, in the middle of the forest were beautiful pink flowers. They sprouted outward like an upside-down umbrella, trying to collect all the water it could.

“Wow,” Bedelia bent down, eyes wide. She knelled next to Rebecca, dirtying her white stockings and dress. “That doesn’t look anything like the honeysuckles you found near _your_ house, Becca.

“Should we pick them? You take half to your momma and I’ll take half to mine?”

Bedelia responded by quirking an eyebrow toward her hairline. Would her mother care for flowers? She hadn’t seen any in their house since father’s funeral, but these weren’t like _those_ flowers. These were beautiful. Mother was always saying she had to be a lady. That she had to marry into a good family, dress nicely, and most importantly, be a lady. Maybe flowers would make her look like a lady? She could pin them in her blonde _‘dirty, dirty, blonde hair from your father’s side, no doubt.’_ Hair. Maybe mother would be pleased. She was wearing dresses and stockings and she even started going to the classes offered by mean Mrs. Mcgrady across town. She only went for funny Mr. Mcgrady who would give her advice whose husband would whisper to her sometimes while she tried to differentiate between forks:

            ‘ _You have to be regal to earn their acceptance, but you never have to accept this. Quite silly to walk with books on your head, when you could be reading them.’_

And she did read. Grandmother Daphne wrote books about ladies, but young Bedelia never really understood them much. Instead, she began in her father’s elaborate library

            ‘ _What are you doing in there?’_

_‘Reading the novel Mrs. Mcgrady assigned, Mother.’_

She never read Mrs. Mcgrady’s books. They were what Mr. Mcgrady called ‘hogswash’ and Bedelia believed him. “A lady should be silent,” the book claimed. What if she had to go to the bathroom? Or she was allergic to the food being served? Mr. Mcgrady was right. She started with her father’s copy of ‘Alice in Wonderland’ but happened across one of his medical textbooks after climbing on the couches once she looked through his other books. From the books on the top shelf, she learned that mother’s emotions didn’t actually come from her heart- they lied on Valentine’s Day Cards (which mother let her receive, but never give). Emotions were formed in the brain. Father had one book on psychology-he was a family doctor after all, and she read as much about the brain as she could. There were even pictures, and she wobbled her head, wondering if that was really what her brain looked like-of course, she assumed it wasn’t color coated like the blues, greens and reds of the book.

“Bee? Here’s your half!” the young girl shouted excitingly, jumping up from the dirty ground and wiping off her old dress. She immediately was snapped out of her reverie.

‘ _You were not given the name ‘Bedelia’ to be associating yourself with the alcoholic’s brat. Money with money, that’s how it has to be.’_  

Bedelia shook her head and thanked Rebecca. Mother was wrong about Becca. Becca was nice, and she was smart, the smartest in their class- that’s how she got a scholarship to the school they attended, which Bedelia knew was quite expensive. Maybe mother would change her mind when she saw the wonderful flowers Becca found. Most definitely. Bedelia pushed one of the flowers behind her ear and ran back home, from the wooded area that Becca lived in and into her neighborhood. Her house sat on a hill with  a long driveway and a white gate. After unlatching it, she ran to the house and to her mother, who was sitting in the armchair, reading a letter from her sister in England.

“Mother, Mother! Look what Becca and I found!” She curtsied to her mother, bowing her head and holding out the flowers, exposing the flower in her hair as well. Her mother placed the letter on the side table silently, waiting for her daughter to rise from her bow. The young girl was smiling wildly, her gums exposed.

Suddenly, her mother’s hand moved swiftly across Bedelia’s face, slapping the smile off the young girl’s features. “Look what you’ve done, to your dress-to your stockings,” her mother shouted, grabbing her dress and forcing her to look at the stains. The young girl bit back tears, attempting to ignore the stinging on her cheek. She looked down at her clothes and noticed the mud covering her shoes and stockings, a huge stain over her dress, probably when she was climbing the tree with James.

She had to show mother that she was in fact a lady. Appearances were important, Mr. Mcgrady said so. One day she would get it right, even if she was a lady who helped mothers with their brains.

Her mother stormed out of the room, snatching her letter off the table and slamming the door in her wake; the grandiose house with double staircases seemed to shake for a moment, the floorboards and linoleum rising, but Bedelia knew she always had an active imagination. She looked at the crushed pink flowers, the stems and petals every which way. Her father didn’t have any books on flowers, but maybe the library did. Bee picked up the mangled flowers from the ground and brought them to her nose. They were broken, but still sweet-smelling and beautiful. Could flowers be other things too? One day, she would go into town with Becca and read all about them.

~

“Bedelia,” after silence answered his call, he called again: “Bedelia.”

“Yes, Hannibal. I’m in the greenhouse.” He should have known that would be the first thing she went to once they returned.

“You didn’t hear me?”

“Sorry, I was lost in thoughts- look at this,” she said as she got close to the sprouting plant, its pink leaves reaching toward the heavens, begging for the water she was now sprinkling on it.

“Nerium Oleander.”

“You remember?” she asks offhandedly, tilting the watering can, and examining the flowers closely for disease.

“I know your fragrance quite well,” He says, sliding his arms around her and clasping them on her front. She tenses completely and he can practically hear her counting in her head, trying not to shudder at the sudden sensation. She grips the watering can tightly for a moment, until her knuckles are white, but she doesn’t push him away, doesn’t push the memories away. She lets them flow into her head until she relaxes and pats his hand before moving onto the next plant- a process taking merely minutes: Progress. Soon, it will be like second nature to her-like breathing. She’s a survivor. She’s done it before and she will do it again, she just needs time.Freddie Lounds is safely marinating in her spices in his freezer and though his partner is still cracked and mangled, he’s helping her keep the pieces together. Soon, the cracks will barely be noticeable. He had to return her home today, to attend the court proceedings of Will Graham. Things didn’t seem to be going well for him, despite his best efforts. Maybe the Judge will help.

* * *

**Baltimore Courthouse, 2014**       

“We believe she will strike again sometime this spring, although it is unclear how many victims she will take; we’ve yet to tie them together, but she has a pattern of targeting high-functioning men, and does so every 2 years” The loud voice of Jack Crawford boomed over the room as he paced in front of the electronic board displaying all the information they had on the “Soapbox Seducer.”

            “Sir,” a voice chimed from the back of the room, “what makes you so sure that this is a woman; the crimes are terribly violent”

            “Women can be just as violent as men; they just disguise it better,” He simply says, walking out of the room and leaving it Agents leading the investigation to describe that the woman sent an small box to the workplaces of these high-functioning men, their shirts covered in blood stab wounds. They never found any bodies, but the blood was enough of identification. The letter attached to each box depicted the particular reason that each victim had to die, along with the line “They were asking for it.”

Jack Crawford had to get to Will Graham. He hated to admit it, but he had more important matters to deal with than this ‘Soapbox Seducer’ as Freddie Lounds liked to call her, and after digging into these men in the past, most of them were better off dead. Speaking of Freddie Lounds, Jack was in fact surprised that he hadn’t seen any articles detailing the FBI’s arrest of a fellow agent. Maybe she was busy writing a detailed novel about Abigail Hobbs before someone else got the idea? The woman was probably ecstatic- no profits to share since the young girl was murdered.

He walks down the hall wondering when his mistakes with Will Graham will be fully out in the open, when he should expect his pink slip, when he should begin to look at funeral homes for his wife’s impending death “Looking for someone?”

            “Hannibal- have you seen him?”

Alana Bloom is dressed brightly in blue, and although he’s not a master of make-up, he’s spent too much time with his wife to be fooled by expert-brand concealers and mineral powders. His wife wears her makeup to chemo, hoping that he won’t see the gaunt in her cheeks, or the burst blood vessels in his eyes. She sits and paints her face to appear normal, and Bella’s routine fools him as much as Alana’s; not at all. He knows that she’s trying not to show the damage; attempting to hide from the court that she cares for a man who’s been deemed not only a serial killer but a master sociopath. She doesn’t want to believe it, but it keeps her up at night, and from the still-visible puffiness, he knows that the non-stop tears have also kept her up. These, these empathy tears-he knows plenty about them. He knows how they feel as they’re falling down your cheeks when you’re trying to hide them, how water in the shower makes them feel less significant until you feel the saltiness on your lips and are reminded of your continuous failure.

            “Earlier, yes. He should be preparing to testify.”

            “Jack…what if Will is right? What if the real villain is still lurking, taunting us- making it so painstakingly easy for us to see, but we can’t?

            “So it’s been keeping you up at night too?”

* * *

           

**Early 2010**

            “Dr. Du Maurier, they’re seeing your pattern,” Hannibal begins immediately after he closes the heavy door to her office, unbuttoning his suit jacket and sitting on the vintage high-back chair in her office. Walls with books aligned meticulously surround him, along with expensive travel ornaments. There are no pictures and if not for the color scheme and general difference in dimensions, he would believe he was in his own office. This is only his second session with Dr. du Maurier, but she intrigues him. They aren’t really sessions, to be fair, but he enjoys talking with a like-minded individual.

“And what pattern would that be,” she questions, eyebrow arched. She closes the thick black journal she has in her hands and places it on her desk, removing her eyeglasses.

“You’re sexist in your pursuits, specifically pursing men who have secret pasts in assaulting women-men who have been brutally murdered but seemed to welcome the attack. ” She stands from beside her desk, her hand resting on the oak wood adjacent to her slender form. “That pattern,” he punctuates. She clears her throat.

“And how did you _really_ find me, Dr. Lecter?” she begins, moving hair out of her face with a flick of her hand. “I’ve been meaning to ask who exactly you were _referred_ from, but it seemed unprofessional to call you a liar on your first session.”

“There’s no need to play coy, Dr. du Marier.”

“Indeed.” She turns her back on the man and begins walking to a door she’s never opened in the two times he’s been in her office. She returns with a bottle and two glasses, the stems between her agile fingers. “Wine?” She motions with the bottle, setting the glasses on the glass table between them, pouring the liquid in both glasses and settling on the opposite chair, crossing her legs.

She drinks from the glass long and slow, drawing back soon enough to let the liquid swirl when it rests in her palm. He matches her, taking considerably more from his glass and into his slender mouth. “I don’t assume you’ve brought a list in that bag so we can be sure we don’t encounter the same _client_ again.”

“Not exactly,” He says, after he’s finished drinking, leaving the conversation at that. Despite his pretence, he enjoys this game. He can smell her from across the room- from the first time he entered her office two weeks ago. The fragrance is hand-made he’s sure, but mixed with her own heat, It drives him mad. He wonders what she’ll taste like, and he’s happy that his pants are not as incredibly tailored as they appear.

“I’m intrigued by the veil you wear. It’s well tailored, like your suit- like a skin above your real flesh, masquerading as the real thing.”

“Veil.” He repeats, taking another sip of wine while hers still hovers in her hand.

“On our first visit, you told me you were seeking assistance because you’ve been getting attached to the patients at your practice.”

“That’s correct.”

“But, what I believe, Dr. Lecter,” she pauses, staring into his eyes “is that you build walls around yourself and actually, you cannot connect with your patients.” She uncrosses and re-crosses her legs. “From what _I’ve seen_ , It seems to me like the veil is an expert at emotion while you yourself are quite mad.”

“Mad?” He’s feeling a tingling sensation in his toes. She’s found him out, seen through him so clearly that he might as well be one of the glass vases assorted through her office.

“We’re all mad to do what we do, are we not?” she rises from her chair across from Hannibal and crosses the room, settling directly next to him on the couch.

“Tell me, _Hannibal”_ his name comes from her lips in an out of breath whisper, and she takes another drag from her wine, eliciting him to do the same. His glass is now finished, while hers is somehow still halfway full. A smirk is on her lips, highlighting the bone structure of her face. “Have you come here to _kill_ me?”

“You put something in my wine, Dr. du Maurier.”

“In a man’s world, we must find _something_ to give us an edge.” She knows he can still kill her, slice her throat and impale her like all of his other victims as the Ripper. Since he hasn’t, she assumes he will not- for now. The wine isn’t poisoned enough to kill him, or cause paralysis, like in her victims- he will just feel like he can’t handle his liquor for a few hours. Hopefully he will stay away from now on; she knows she couldn’t handle him if he truly wanted to kill her. Although she hasn’t seen so for herself, she knows that under his suits lay a muscled body, ready to snap her in half if they truly wished to do so. She knows he knows she’s a murderer, that she has a clear pattern. But through shared secrecy they can go on, she hopes. He rises to his feet, using all this strength to keep his composure. His limbs feel tingly, but he simply feels like he’s 10  again and drinking too much. Her insight is fascinating and he wants to hear more, wants to know what more she has to say. But his session is over. It would be rude to continue over their scheduled time.

“I look forward to our appointment next week, Dr. du marier.”

Her eyebrows shoot to the sky before relaxing into a demure smile. She opens the door to her office and shows him out.

“Of course, Dr. Lecter.”

* * *

 

  **Late 2010** **  
**

Her footsteps echo on the cobblestone pavement of Fells Point, Maryland. Baltimore really could be a beautiful city when you looked at it in the right light; meaning no light at all. The streetlamps, turned down by this time of night shined on the crevices of creamy flesh exposed, namely her legs. It was chilly tonight, and she was thankful as she wrapped the light scarf around her face. Another good thing about Baltimore: as much as they prided themselves on crime control, she never encountered an officer on her walks. The rich communities did have their perks. Steps quickly moved behind her and she knew that it was the sound of his leather shoes hitting the pavement with his heavy-footed gait. Was he angry?  She dipped down the alley way and could see the lights shining from the windows of the Hilton hotel. She really should drop her purse off in her car- no time now. Suddenly, she felt a hand reach for her shoulder and spin her around roughly and she gasped in surprise- this one really was as eager as she had remembered.

            “You can’t just leave after _that,”_ he snarled in her ear “Tease.” He has her pinned against the brick wall, arms on each side as he looked down at her.

            “Me…a tease,” she feigned ignorance initially before turning her lips into a demure smile. “I was just trying to get your attention.”

            “You’ve got it.” His lips were on her neck, sliding up the hollow of her throat, his hands reaching to grope her breast as his other moved to her hip. “Baby, I’d do so much to you tonight.”

            “Not tonight.”  His brows knot in confusion for a moment before she slides the hypodermic needle into his skin, pushing all of the liquid into his bloodstream. Using needles wasn’t her specialty, but she was content that she thought to bring it- if she hadn’t who knows what could have happened. It was always a shame when she couldn’t get them where she needed to. She would just need to get crafty.

            “Personally, I think it’s ludicrous that it takes on average a year to _assemble_ a rape case for court when you can make it disappear _just_  by making a phone call” She spoke to no one, huffing as she held his body up. If he fell she wasn’t sure she could lift him off the ground. She hooked him arm over her shoulder and began to walk with him- her back hurting as she dragged his heavy body along. If anyone saw them, they would think she was simply carting her drunken lover home. She would giggle and tell them ‘Glen’ drank too much with his buddies tonight. On these streets it was an everyday sight. She just needed to get him to her car and then-

            “You look as though you need some assistance, Dr. du Maurier.”

            “Yes, thank you,” she paused as he positioned the body onto him and began to carry him with skill. “I was wondering when you would come from the shadows, Dr. Lecter.”

            “You expected him to be aggressive” she nods her head in agreement, fishing for her keys as they approached her car. Hannibal places the man in the back seat of her sensible car and climbs into the passenger’s side.

            “Dr. Lecter, would you like to join” she pauses, completely forgetting the man’s name “ _Glen_ and I for a late dinner and a show.” He looks over to see that she is smirking at her, and he returns the gesture, offering to make the dinner.

            She starts the ignition and licks her lips. Since their ‘sessions’ started months ago she’s been waiting for the opportunity to experience his culinary skill in person. She hopes he’ll be able to salvage the meat after she’s finished with ‘Glen.’    

 

* * *

 

 

            **2014**

He fishes for the key she gave him earlier and fiddles with the lock, his muscles sore and tired from his quick-work of the Judge and the terribly rude real-estate agent he’d encountered too many times that day. He shouldn’t have done both in the same night, but Will’s adamant denile of their friendship pushed him over the line- Just as Bedelia had predicted. He wasn’t sure if he was more frustrated that he felt this way towards Will or that Bedelia had known exactly how his testimony in court would go.

            _‘They’re going to refuse your testimony.’_

Her home is dark when he enters, but when he sees the light on in the kitchen he relaxes. He could never stay frustrated with her for long, especially when she left the light on in the kitchen, knowing he would need to have a glass of wine to relax. He’s been content over the past few months. His companion still has trouble leaving the house, but she can- and that’s progress. They’ve returned to their previous patters and he’s sure that with his help, she’ll be taking at least 3 men this year- even if he does have to wait until the end of the year for her. Her case files are overflowing with repeated offenders, too rich to pay for their crimes against women…and men. He’s proud of her. He hears her feet pad across the floor, but continues to pour his white wine.

“Hannibal,” she says softly, sliding a hand along his back as she moves beside him. “Have they started looking for Ms. Lounds yet?”

“I have the feeling that Jack Crawford doesn’t miss her much, and luckily her possible testimony was thrown out when her recent charges of libel were mentioned.” His back is tense and she knows her predictions of Will Graham were correct.

“You can’t engage him in friendship at this stage. He’s unstable and will fight when given the chance.”  He takes a long drag of his wine before looking over at her. Sometimes he forgets how incredibly short she is without her heels but she looks positively breathtaking in her silk night gown, her creamy thighs exposed. Her hair is fluffy from being air dried and he quickly recognizes her comforting gesture. He moves from her touch and to the refrigerator, hoping that there’s something he can make. The recent weather has prevented the service from delivering her groceries but he’d hoped she would have some remaining items. She was never one to run completely out and he needed to make something to relax his nerves.

He should have purchased groceries for her, but it had completely slipped his mind- he’d hope she’d been eating. Opening the fridge, his eyebrows rose to the sky when he saw that the whole fridge was stocked.

“The peapod arrived?” She joined him at the fridge, pressing her silk-clad form on his back her breasts firmly against his muscles as she wrapped her arms around him.

“I went to the store-and, I picked up your favorite.” He examined the fridge to note that she had returned with the turnover from his favorite bakery. Her arms drop to her side and she covers her face in a yawn. He looks over at the clock and notices it’s 3:24 am.

“Bedelia, you didn’t have to wait up.”

“I needed to ask you something.”  His body momentarily freezes before he sees the sleep-hazed smile on her face. “Are you free tomorrow night for an  _outing?_ ” She's smirking at him now, just like on the first night they'd spent together, when she asked him to join her and  _Glen_ for dinner. He forgets that she's still relatively unstable and just drinks her in like the wine still on his lips. She's his Bedelia again, the once broken pieces finally assembling. He will not refuse her request, because he knows she needs control over her own recovery. He obliges her, tilting her head up and placing a kiss on her lips. He can forget about Will Graham, and his glare in the courtroom and just kiss her lips and listen to her mew as he cups her breast gently.

"An outing sounds like an excellent idea." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Bedelia goes to visit Will Graham. Is she double-crossing Hannibal? 
> 
> The F.B.I. are searching for the 'Soapbox Seducer' while Will Graham plots Hannibal's life.


	7. Savor Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s breathing deeply, petrified and on the verge of a panic attack, but disguising it well as lust. In out, in out, as the man grabs her thigh under the table, smirking at her. Her cheeks are flushed and in his egotistical muster he believes, truly believes, he is irresistible- he’s got her exactly where he wants her. Her blue eyes are locked with his brown and she can see the aggression, the hunger, but she must continue her act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is clearly AU by this point, but I will tie in pieces of the show where I can. Enjoy! <3

“I needed to ask you something.”  His body momentarily freezes before he sees the sleep-hazed smile on her face. “Are you free tomorrow night for an  _outing?_ ” She's smirking at him now, just like on the first night they'd spent together, when she asked him to join her and  _Glen_ for dinner. He forgets that she's still relatively unstable and just drinks her in like the wine still on his lips. She's his Bedelia again, the once broken pieces finally assembling. He will not refuse her request, because he knows she needs control over her own recovery. He obliges her, tilting her head up and placing a kiss on her lips. He can forget about Will Graham, and his glare in the courtroom and just kiss her lips and listen to her mew as he cups her breast gently.

"An outing sounds like an excellent idea." 

* * *

 

She’s breathing deeply, petrified and on the verge of a panic attack, but disguising it well as lust. In out, in out, as the man grabs her thigh under the table, smirking at her. Her cheeks are flushed and in his egotistical muster he believes, truly believes, he is irresistible- he’s got her exactly where he wants her. Her blue eyes are locked with his brown and she can see the aggression, the hunger, but she must continue her act. She slides from the chair smoothly and excuses herself to the ladies room, flashing her dinner companion a smile. He knows she’s going there to calm her nerves, to possibly pull a stronger drink than the light wine she’s been offered all night. He only hopes that she doesn’t have a Valium in her bag. They’d dealt with that months ago and he’d hoped she would never touch it again.

 His eyes land on her dinner companion, impatiently shoving his steak into his mouth, and he wants nothing more than to kill him right there. First, he’d slice off the tongue that was whispering crude obscenities across the dinner table-obscenities he knows that the dinner guests in the dinner table over heard. They think she’s dirty now. His Bedelia. Next he would cut off the fingers that grabbed her knee roughly under the table. But he can’t. He takes another drink from his aged scotch- too expensive for this establishment but decent nonetheless, and remembers why he’s here. She needs this. This is her work, and although it pains her now- she needs it. He knows she feels she will never recover without this final step so he must let her go through the necessary steps on her own. She eyes him on her return from the powder room and her heels click confidently on the mock marble floor of the want to-be fancy restaurant. Her head is held high and her hair is swishing from side to side as she slides back into her seat with this miscreant urchin disguised as a ‘handsome’ businessman.

 She wants him to believe that she is calm, that she is in control- and he will oblige her. He’s long since forgotten her cruel words in their ‘sessions,’ where she pretended that she didn’t know him, and pushed him away, numbing herself from head to toe from him. From herself. She’d surrounded herself in walls and he climbed each one, losing his footing at places but still continuing the climb. He waited patiently for her, seeing more of _his_ Bedelia as each day passed and now, here they were.

She’s sipping her glass of wine and smiling demurely at the man seated at the table across from her, lifting her glass to her true companion as the dinner guest continues to shove meat into his face, taking her dinner roll off her plate without asking. He’s always admired her for her precision. For her ability to find the one who was just right. Everything she did was calculated- a science and he appreciated the details she put into her act, especially the red lipstick and her walk. Hip, leg, hip, leg he could never decide what to look at. The way she shifted her hips as she left the establishment made him suddenly wish they were home and she was in his bed. Or on the counter. Or his piano. She hadn’t been to his home in such a long time. He would devour her. He missed her sitting in his lap, as he moved her hands, and kissed her neck, teaching her how to play the Theremin. And she laughed and laughed, and asked him why he couldn’t play a normal instrument, while grabbing his lower lip with her teeth. Kissing him deeply, her tongue in his mouth, the smell of her hair in his nostrils. He shook his head and returned to his task, shifting in his seat.

 He couldn’t hear her from across the bar, but he knew the way she exhaled her words into the man’s face, letting him see just a glimpse of her milky skin and the fabric of her black lace lingerie.

Her prey was hot on her tail and practically running after her.

He is number one. There will be two more and they will be in quick succession.

The man is stumbling into the home his legs feeling numb as he, plants wet, hot kisses on her neck, and she fights back a shutter. She needs to do this. He needs to die- he will not terrorize women any longer. Hannibal is watching from the shadows, his eyes focused on her skin, the erection pressing against his pants and into the plastic suit he is wearing to assist her later. What he enjoys most is seeing their face once they realize that they are not the predator but the prey. He’s not at all alarmed by the plastic draping on the furniture as she whispers, her words breathy as she removes his shirt that she’s returning from a long trip. He smiles, whispering that he’s going to take her on a trip and presses his erection into her body. She stiffens momentarily but pushes him on the bed, and before he knows it, he’s cuffed. He wants to shake in the cuffs, to tell her to ‘get em the fuck off, bitch. He’s not a woman,’ but he’s occupied by the feeling in his legs- better yet the lack of feeling. Why are his legs numb? She leaves the room- must be making herself right for him.

 10 minutes go by and his is head is hurting and he can’t feel the thrill in his underwear any longer. It’s the liquor. The liquor. The liquor. His fraternity brothers warned him of this possible effect some 20 years ago, but he never believed them. He looked down to see that he no longer had an erection.

‘Picture her tits. Picture her tits. God, don’t disappoint. Be the man. Teach her to be submissive. Where the hell is she?’

“Alice, _babe_ , what liquor was in that drink you gave me?” He calls, irritated, hoping she returns at his beckoning and lets him out of the cuffs so he can pop his Viagra. He was going to fuck her brains out. Make her really scream, even if she didn’t want what he was going to give her. She was a whore anyway-picking him up in a bar. Coming on to _him._ She was going to take all of him. Everywhere.

She glides into the room, clad in her black bra and matching thong- a personal favorite for her companion in the shadows. She has a plastic suit of her own, but he knows that for these particular jobs, she needs the contact-craves it.Hannibal maneuvers to get a better view. He must see her eyes. She mounts the man, one leg over another, and presses her sex against his jeans.

“Take ‘em off.” He commands, no longer in the mood for her foreplay. She grins as she takes the butcher knife from behind her back, and the companion for dinner’s eyes become huge, bugging out of his skull. She runs it down his body, leaving a small line of blood in her wake as he whimpers.

The thrill he sees in her eyes as she sinks the blade into her prey is astounding. For such a small woman, she has great power. She stabs once, twice a third time and throws her head back in ecstasy and lets out a scream, smoothing her hands over his bloody chest and watching as it bubbles in his mouth. She slithers up his body letting the blood ooze over her body, down the plastic and onto the covered floors, as he begins to breathe his last breath. “You wanted this. You _asked_ for it. Babe.”

* * *

 

He’s killing at a rapid rate now; one person after another, while simultaneously working to free Will Graham. It’s a dangerous game, wanting to be friends with someone who wants you dead. It was a game he enjoyed. Will Graham was just like him- He just didn’t know it yet.

He doesn’t expect her to walk into his office; her brows knotted in anger and confusion. She’s poised and ready to fight, her chest heaving though none of it present in her voice. “You didn’t need to kill Beverly Katz.”

“And you didn’t need to tell Will Graham that you believed him.”

“But I do believe him,” she grins. It’s not a grin he likes to see, no, this one is filled with Malice. “And I needed to see the man I was ditched for.” He steps toward her aggressively, just as she steps back. She will not admit that she still has fears of his hands going around her throat, but she doesn’t have to.

“I came to your house, ready to assist, but left instead with a bottle of perfume. It seems to me that _I_ was the one ditched.”

“You were _late_.” She moves to leave his office, but his hand around her wrist stops her “ _Hours late_.” She shakes herself free. “You want him as a friend, Hannibal, but he wants you dead.” She leaves his office; she needs to get away. He was dangerous, living his life like this. He would get them killed, or worse, _caught._

* * *

 

She has a feeling. A strong feeling, and it’s eating at her insides. Will Graham will kill him. She calls his phone. Once. Twice. Three times. In spite of herself, she can’t help but worry. Graham is locked up but that never stopped anyone before. By habit, he should be swimming, but she can’t shake the fear that the reckoning has arrived. Will Graham will get revenge for Beverly Katz.

It is a week later, when she has completed her third murder and ignored Hannibal that she hears that Will Graham has made an attempt on his life, manipulating another person. She is not surprised. She is however, surprised that he is still fighting for the man’s freedom. Will Graham will be the one to catch Hannibal, she’s sure of it. Whimsy will be his downfall.

He never calls her back.

* * *

 

She hears a knock at the door, and eagerly walks to open it, knowing it’s not him- but still hoping. Since their last spat she hasn’t heard from him, knowing that he’s engrossed in Will Graham and his release from ‘prison.’ That he’s excited Will Graham has decided to return to him for counseling. But today, today is different. He should be with her today, of all days. But it is past 7 and by now she knows he isn’t coming. Much has happened in these few weeks and although she helped with Miriam Lass, they haven’t seen each other in nearly three weeks. She unlocks one, two, three locks and opens the door to see Jack Crawford standing on the porch of her rural home. The door is opened wider and the man, shaped like a linebacker, offers her a greeting of ‘Dr. Du Maurier’ and shifts confidently in her home, his eyes still bagged from the recent suicide attempt of his wife.

 “Sorry for the late night intrusion, I hope I haven’t caught you at a poor time.” Jack’s heavy laden voice echoes from the walls in her home, as they walk through her foyer and into the kitchen.  “Freddie Lounds has been missing for nearly a 40 days. Have you seen her or heard anything about her from Dr. Lecter?”

She doesn’t question the amount of time, knowing that the F.B.I. was happy to have her out of their hair. That they only got involved when a fellow writer threatened exposure. She will feign ignorance, although she hopes they are here to investigate Hannibal solely on a _hunch_ from Will Graham. He has too many _hunches_ for her liking, but she will squash them. She extends the bottle of wine she’s holding, offering him some of her best but he refuses. She pours herself a glass anyway, disregarding the fact that she’s already had a glass and a half to get her through the day, and it was only 7pm.

“The reporter Ms. Lounds? I’m afraid I haven’t met her before, Mr. Crawford.”

“Now isn’t the time to play coy, Dr. Du Maurier. We know of your relationship with Dr. Lecter”

“And what relationship would that be?” she stares, taking a long drag from her wine. “He is my patient, and-” she’s cut off before she can continue

“Freddie Lounds’ sent herself encrypted emails. It took a long time to get proper orders and fish through bogus emails, but we found something she sent to herself around the time she was last seen.” He turns his iphone around and she sees a grainy video, but recognizes her home immediately, hears his booming voice immediately

_“I didn’t mean for this to happen!”_

_“Get off of me!”_ she sees herself and Hannibal, grainy, but identifiably them- their intimate argument, caught on video, displayed for the world to see.  She hears herself say _“I let him die,”_ and sees him wrap her in his arms. The memory is fresh and feels too real when displayed on Jack Crawford’s phone. The video abruptly stops when Freddie _whispers “shit,”_ a pot clinking on her side.

“Funny how you’ve never seen her, but she has a picture of you in her apartment, along with information about your attack.”

She swallows. Then swallows again, the knot in her throat refusing to disappear. She flips her hair to the side, pushing it over her shoulder when suddenly she feels dizzy. They think Hannibal killed Lounds. She can already feel Jack Crawford ready to lock him up as the ripper as well. They know. They know. She’ll have to tell. He’s going to know now. Everyone will know of her mistakes, of her failure. She must. She cannot let them lock him away.

“Care to share who the “ _him”_ you let die was, Dr. Du Maurier? About the mysterious death of your patient.”  Jack Crawford says proudly, tucking the phone back into his pocket and crossing his arms over his chest. He’s won this argument, one of many, and he’s pride is shining through his grief ridden eyes. She places the glass of wine down and her hand falls to her stomach briefly, as she contemplates her words, realizing she must tell the truth- that it is no longer a detail she can keep so secret that sometimes she can will herself to forget. Not today. He came today, of all days. He knew he could trigger her. He was _hoping_ for it. Half-truths. Half-truths. There was no way to divide her failure in half, to disguise it.

“I-” She pauses, moving her hand from her body and bracing herself on the counter. “I was pregnant when my patient attacked me. Hannibal, he-he saved me. I let our son” she stumbles over her words and brings the back of her hand to her mouth, shaking. She’s not ready to talk to him about this. She isn’t ready to talk to anyone besides Hannibal and even then…; She steadies herself, refusing to cry, to show another vulnerability to this man. She must go on, she must tell him or Hannibal will be further investigated. This will help buy him, _them-_ if there is a _them_ any longer, time. Finally, she finishes. “I had a miscarriage. Our son…he _died_.” The words are thick as black sludge in her mouth, sliding up her throat. She feels sick.

Jack suddenly looks very uncomfortable and shifts his weight dramatically. He didn’t mean for this to happen, he didn’t know.

“That wasn’t in the report. I’m sorry.”

He sees her flinch and recoil at his words “you had no right”

“I’m sorry,” he says solemnly, feeling pathetic.

“I think I’d very much like for you to leave now, if there aren’t any further questions,” she says harshly, finishing the glass of wine on the counter and pouring herself another. He clears his throat, mutters another apology and she sees him out, closing the door. The locks are returned, one, two , three in succession, and she glides to her bedroom, taking the rest of the bottle with her. He had to come _today_. Today of all days. _And Hannibal didn’t care._ Didn’t bother to call. Too wrapped up in his new apprentice Will Graham and Alana Bloom’s legs, she was sure of it.  She could be wrapped too. But she wouldn’t. _She couldn’t._ Not today, of all days. Jack Crawford targeted her, choosing to come on the anniversary of her attack-she was sure of it. She took a deep drink from the bottle, already finishing what was in her glass.

‘I need sleep. Sleep. Sleep. I can’t be awake, I can’t. Not now.’ Stumbling into the master bathroom, she fishes through her cabinet amidst a forthcoming panic attack, moving things aside-throwing his shaving razor to the floor. It’s not in here. It hurts, everything hurts, and she can’t breath. She wants to sleep, to forget- just for right now. She feels empty, and begins to undress herself, to examine herself. Standing only in her lace brassier and panties, her satin top and formfitting skirt discarded on the floor, she turns from side to side, having trouble as the liquor quickly catches up on her empty stomach. When did she eat last? Yesterday morning? She hasn’t been shopping in weeks.

She examines herself, and rubs her hand over the flesh, knowing that she will never carry a child again. Her mother was right all those years ago when she told her she’d never be a mother. He was their one and only, a gift they hadn’t anticipated.  And she couldn’t protect him. Staggering to her bed, she rummages through her bedside table, her agile fingers now fumbling as she curses under her breath. She needs to numb the pain, if just for now. She’s a Doctor, she’ll be fine. She takes a Valium, and then a second pill from the bottle and washes it down with another swig of wine, then deciding that she really, truly, deeply, needs a third and forth pill.

Before long, from a combination of terribly dry wine and prescription medication she’d promised not to take - _but he doesn’t care so it really doesn’t matter anymore-,_ she’s passed out, strewn across the bed and tangled in the thick covering she bought on her trip to France, pulling it closer and closer to her body, scrunching up the sheets- almost believing he’s laying beside her.

* * *

 

The next day, 7:37 am

He hasn’t seen her in weeks. It’s been too long. They haven’t seen _each other_ in weeks. He should have helped her with her second, her third, but he didn’t. . He’s wrapped in Will Graham, fascinated…enthralled.He’s finally found a friend. Will Graham has finally decided to join him, but he hesitates sharing the news with Bedelia, knowing that she will reject it. She will say that Will Graham is a traitor, that he will turn them in. That’s why he’s kept him at a moderate distance- he’s been clearing away his enemies to prepare a getaway if needed, but he’s surprised when Will Graham brings him the flesh of Gideon. He’d had a plan for that man, but the offering was well accepted.

He’s clearing away his enemies, and carefully keeping the blind, blind. Alana Bloom doesn’t laugh the way Bedelia does when they play the Theremin, and she doesn’t arch her back or whisper to him in French while they have sex, but it is enjoyable nonetheless. And he must keep her blind. He just has to deal with the Vergers, and then they would be fine. His apprentice will take initiative there, he’s sure of it. His apprentice. His _friend._ He smiles.

 He flips open his copy of the paper, not noticing the date-he’s been so busy it could be from yesterday or last week- and notices that there’s a special article about the ‘Soapbox Seducer.’ He observed the cluelessness of the F.B.I. through the newspaper and directly through Jack’s musings and was genuinely impressed. She was better than ever, the precision and detail superb. Her last killing was a couple of weeks ago, though, which is why he’s surprised to see an article. He flips to page 7 to see that ‘The Sun’ has decided to have an interview with a ‘private investigator/master profiler’ in the private sector to gain information about Bedelia. He scans the article, reading that the woman must be very beautiful, but charming to get not only the attention of these high-profile men, but their trust. At the end, the article paints her as a vigilant, almost hailing her work. He is seriously surprised. It seems as though she has become an icon, the article ending with:“But, these men were wolves disguised in sheep’s-clothes, or business suits for that matter, and we must question whether or not we are better off without them lurking, thirsty for the blood of the next little red riding hood.” He closes the paper and takes a drink of his morning coffee, freshly brewed and smelling exquisite. He should eat breakfast and enjoy is Saturday off.

Suddenly, he feels a pang of guilt in his chest. Has she been eating? He worries, wonders if her agoraphobia has kept her in the house, spare for luring her three prey. Has she regressed? Has his presence or lack thereof made a difference or is she functioning fine without him. He decides he can no longer brood on the fact that she was correct previously about Will Graham intending to kill him. Things are different now, and he needs to make sure she’s okay and eating properly. He begins to pull the ingredients out for frittata, knowing that she will complain about the calories and fat in the dish, but devour it anyway- it was her favorite and he really did need something delicious to apologize. As he turned to his table to take a swig from his coffee cup his eyes scanned over the newspaper, noticing the date for the first time. His eyes widened and he dropped the cup, the pieces shattering at his feet, hot liquid splattered over the bottom of his slacks.

He grabbed  his keys, not caring for his coat and ran from his house and slid into the car, his foot heavy on the gas. 40, 50, 60, 70, 80. The car whizzed around the twists and bends to get to her home. He called her, once, twice, three times. No answer. _‘You’ve reached Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier’_ Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. He tossed the phone on the seat and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. His knuckles her white as he tried to reason with his thoughts.  She was fine. He was exaggerating. _He should have taken better care of her._ No. She was fine.

His phone screamed for attention and he palmed it fast as he could, answering it before checking the number.

“Hannibal, -”

Dammit. It was Jack Crawford. Dammit. Dammit. He listened to the man apologize for the time, and go on and on. He wasn’t listening. He could only hear her voice in his ears, begging him to help her, screaming his name. Jack Crawford’s mention of Bedelia drew him out of his reverie.

“What?”

Back-tracking the conversation in his head that he wasn’t really listening too, he realized Jack had paid Bedelia a visit. The man continued to explain until Hannibal cut him off, furious.

“You harassed her! You were planning to trigger her,” he growled into the phone, ending the call as Jack apologized and throwing the phone as hard as he could against the closed passenger window, resulting in a crack in the window and the shattering of his iphone screen.

Finally, the car skidded to a stop outside of her rural home. Sprinting to the door, he fiddled with the locks, one, two, three- the two added right after her initial attack. He jammed his key into the last lock and once successful, threw the door open, and slamming it shut. “Bedelia,” he bellowed, searching the rooms on the ground floor for her presence. _Maybe she went for a walk? Maybe she’s in her study listening to Mahler? Maybe she’s concentrating in her study with the door closed? Or tending to her precious flowers?_ “Bedelia,” he called again, taking the steps to her second floor two at a time. The door to her bedroom was locked. Locked. Dammit. He couldn’t. She wouldn’t have. She promised. The doorframe shattered into splintered wood as he kicked the heavy mahogany door open, gaining access to her bedroom, where she lie sprawled on the King sized bed, her tiny frame appearing even tinier and frail as she laid only in her undergarments, her pink dainty toes peaking from under a sheet. The light shined through her tasteful curtains, making her skin glisten and her hair look like a golden crown on top of her head.

He rushed to her, kneeling on the bed, the sheets rumbling and wrinkling under him as he lifted her by the shoulders, so she was sitting up, braced by his arm and chest. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. She needed to wake up. He had to wake her up. He saw the bottle of wine-empty, and the spilled bottle of Valium. He hadn’t been there to comfort her when she needed him most. Will Graham. Will Graham. He’d forgotten all about her. She sought comfort and got it from somewhere else.“Please.”

 Her head lolled back as he lifted, long blond hair with fallen curls descending over his arm that held her firmly in place. Her skin was warm, but so was the sun that shone brightly on her uncovered skin. He knew what he had to do, but he was terrified. He couldn’t. Her neck was exposed to him, and she looked peaceful even though he was viewing the long, jagged scar across her milky flesh in daylight. “Delia,” he whispered, moving his hand to her neck, running it across the scar to reach his destination. Tears in his rimmed eyes, fought their way onto his cheeks, falling with a light splash onto her velvety skin “I’m here now.” His two fingers have positioned themselves properly and are now on her carotid as he waits.

“ _Delia_ , _please_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter. Thank you to everyone who reads my work, I really appreciate it.
> 
> Also: Praise in the revelation that Bedannibal/Hannidelia is CANON! Woot Woot!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tears in his rimmed eyes fought their way onto his cheeks, falling with a light splash onto her velvety skin “I’m here now.” His two fingers have positioned themselves properly and are now on her carotid as he waits.
> 
> “Delia, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for graphic depictions

Tears in his rimmed eyes fought their way onto his cheeks, falling with a light splash onto her velvety skin “I’m here now.” His two fingers have positioned themselves properly and are now on her carotid as he waits.

_“Delia, please.”_

* * *

 

His fingers hold steady, though the rest of him shaking as he applies the pressure and waits. _She cannot be dead. She will not be dead. I will not allow it._ His thoughts are stopped by the steady pulse drumming on his fingers, and he lets out a stifled sob. _She’s alive._

He smoothes a lock of hair from her face and tucks it behind her ear. He has to be sure she’s alright. He lays her flat on the bed and presses the side of his head to her chest, hearing labored breathes. She needs to wake up. He needs to wake her, needs to hear her voice. _‘I’m fine, Hannibal,’_ she would say in her steady drone. She needs to be awake, to quell his fears of her slumber.

 _It’s not slumber,_ his mind screams. _She’s comatose. It’s your fault. Just like Mischa._

Quickly, he rushes to the bathroom, twisting the faucets, which in turn angrily spout cold water into the porcelain, claw-foot tub where they’ve shared many memories. Where he walked in on her bubble bath, her hair tied on top of her head. Where he sat behind her, rubbing oil into her arms as he called her his ‘unconventional’ psychiatrist. Where he first shared Mischa Where he held her when she cried over their son until the droplets of water evaporated from her shaking spine.

Returning to her bed, he carefully lifts her body, limbs falling around his arms. He doesn’t care for the sleeves of his sweater as he gently lowers her into the cold water, watching as gooseflesh forms over her skin. She’s nearly submerged and her hair is floating behind her and to the sides, thick and heavy in the water. She doesn’t wake. She doesn’t wake.

_This isn’t like last time._

He has one last thing to try. He shouldn’t. It was one of the first things he’d learned _not_ to do in his schooling. But what other choice did he have? Taking her to the hospital would result in her institutionalization- 30 mandatory days in a mental health facility. 30 days away from her home, away from him. The professional becoming the patient, treated with the same philosophy she once imposed on her own clientele. He couldn’t do that to her. Couldn’t let them take her freedom.

He pushes her chest lightly, and her head is suddenly submerged in the water, the tendrils of hair following. He watches as bubbles emerge from her nose-and then they don’t. Then they don’t. Suddenly, her body begins to convulse as she tries to breath and he aggressively pulls her from beneath the clear water. She gags, and chokes, her eyes closed, and body shaking. The tendrils of hair have wrapped around her head like seaweed, sticking in her mouth and around her eyes. She’s spurting water as he pats her and her breaths begin in heavy gasps between  fits of coughing.

But she’s alive.

And awake.

And Alive.

“Bedelia,” he rubs at the smooth skin of her back. “you’re okay.” He’s not sure if the words are to her or himself.

“Ha-Hannibal” she stutters, her eyes slowly opening. Now, he can see the effect of what he’s done. Capillaries have burst in her beautiful blue eyes, each reaching out from her eyes like vines. Beneath, her eyes are red rimmed, and puffy from the tears she shed without his comfort. She shivers and looks down immediately noticing her appearance. How pathetic she must look. She’s so proud. Too proud to ask him for help or admit defeat. Her hands firmly grip the tub as she tries to push herself up. “I’m f-f-fine” she speaks through her chattering teeth as he moves toward her with a bath towel.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers just as she begins to stumble, wrapping the large white bath towel around her form. He’s holding her hand as she steps from the claw-foot bathtub, one foot at a time and onto the white fluffy rug his knees were  minutes ago pressed to as he silently prayed to a god he didn’t believe in for her to be alive. Soon, she’s retching into the toilet bowl, heaving the empty contents of her stomach- a stomach mixed with a deadly cocktail. He can only hope she’ll be fine, now, but he knows otherwise.

When she’s finished, a soft moan escaping her lips, he guides her to her drawers, her squeeze on his arm telling him what he already knew. He slips under the towel and unclasps the soaking wet brassier, helping her step from the equally wet panties. Her disorientation, a classic sign of overdose,  is evident. Reaching in her drawer he pulls panties and a long camisole, her head lolling back and forth as she tries to protest, tries to put on the clothes herself. She will not be dressed in her own home. “Delia, please,” he whispers and she stops her protest, her brows knotting. She lets him lift her arms, as he slides the baby blue camisole over her head. She’s still dazed as his arms scoop under her legs. He should ask her if she could walk, but in a time like this he could afford his rudeness. She whines as he lifts her and mutters incoherent words into his chest. He wants nothing more than to lay her in the bed, wrapping covers around the both of them and laying with her as man and woman. But he cannot. He cannot risk the possibility of falling asleep with her- of  the prospect that she won’t wake up again. He can feel her shallow breaths against his chest as he lowers her onto the bed, her wet hair flat against the  white pristine bed sheets. He listens intently as he moves quickly to _his drawers_ and her medicinal bag. The drawers that used to declare their cohabitation. Sliding it open, he is relieved to find his shirts and sleep pants in their proper place, recently cleaned. He will have to thank her when she truly awoke. _His Bedelia._ Stepping out of his sodden clothes, he slid on pajamas despite the time of day. Moving back to their bed, he lifted her softly and sat behind her, his back firmly pressed against the headboard of their immaculate bed. He separated his legs and pulled her to him, her back cold against his chest. He could feel her breathing- assure that she was alive. When she started to shake his eyes widen in horror, before he realizes she was shivering. _Just shivering._ Taking the prepared needle from the desk, he slides it into her skin, the pinch of the puncture causing her to twitch, a soft mew in her throat. He pulls the blanket up to her chin and wraps it around her. He had to protect her. At least this time.

* * *

 

Her body hurts. It hurts badly, but she’s remembered. She has to tell him.

“Ja-Jack knows,” she whispers, her voice rasping through her sore throat as she lies against his chest.

“I know.”

He hears her sigh, a mum in her throat. He’s rubbing her arms with his large hands and they warm to his touch. He moves her hair from her face, sliding the slick locks over her shoulders. Her head is on fire and her stomach is sick. “I-I just wanted to sleep,” she whispers, knowing that he was thinking she was making an attempt on her life again.

He decides she needs to hear what he has to say now. He can’t hold it back any longer.

“If I hadn’t come, you may have died.”

She’s decided he needs to hear what she has to say now. She can’t hold back any longer.

“Why did you come?”

He tenses under her, his body rigid. He takes her hand in his and squeezes, running his thumb over the smooth skin of her hand.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, that I didn’t protect you from Jack.” She sighs deeply, realizing from the stiffness of his body that they must have been lying here for hours. She’d be an idiot to believe he didn’t care for her. The voices in her head spoke otherwise. Especially when she hadn’t taken anything to keep them at bay.

“It was of my own making,” she speaks softly. He holds her tighter as tears flow down his cheeks and into her damp hair.

“I can’t lose you,” his voice cracks over the last word

“I’ve missed you.”

He runs his fingers through her hair and makes promises of his loyalty. Although he has a deep-seated curiosity and attraction to the Will Graham, he cannot sacrifice her for him. They’ve lost so much. He’s nearly lost her once. He couldn’t again.

 Her lips are shaky and recovering when she kisses him. He doesn’t stop her.

* * *

 

 

It is _weeks_ later when she tells him to think of the repercussions of having Will Graham as a patient and apprentice, of Mason Verger. She’s cutting into the steak he’s cooked medium-rare and taking a long drag from her red wine. Will Graham has already killed twice for him; dined on his victims at the dinner table. It is an impressive act and he is most certainly impressed.

 “I can’t, Hannibal,” she says with certainty, pouring herself a glass of wine. She can, really she can. Jack already knows. He has left them alone, as she expected. She’s thankful. They have time, Freddie Lounds no longer a concern. She’d wanted this, she told herself.

“It’s just a dinner party,” he states plainly, placing the tender meat into his mouth. It’s not just a dinner party. Her birthday is next week, the day of the party. Of course, he would never tell anyone else. Just another half truth.

She can’t be the hostess he wants her to be. She can’t make it the same as before when he would cook elaborate dishes and she would mingle with guests, as if she was simply his close friend. As if he didn’t shatter plates after the party, ramming her body into the table through heavy thrusts as her fingernails carved into his back. She feels a quick case of ephemeral dizziness, forgetting it quickly when he speaks again: “We can have our own celebration after everyone has gone home,” he says with a sly grin.

“No early celebrations,” she asks, the smile curving on her lips as she unbuttons her blouse. Before she knows it, her legs are wrapped around his torso and she’s lain on her dining room table, holding his thick hair in her hands as his tongue swirls over and over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read and review!
> 
> Next Chapter: The dinner party!! What's going on with Will Graham? Will he destroy Hannibal? Does Jack let on more than he knows?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And what will be my present,” she asks, the smile curving on her lips as she unbuttons her top. “For all my labors, I should at least get a hint.” Before she knows it, her legs are wrapped around his torso and she’s lain on her dining room table, holding his thick hair in her hands as his tongue swirls over and over again.

_“And what will be my present,” she asks, the smile curving on her lips as she unbuttons her top. “For all my labors, I should at least get a hint.” Before she knows it, her legs are wrapped around his torso and she’s lain on her dining room table, holding his thick hair in her hands as his tongue swirls over and over again._

* * *

 

**April 20th, 2014**

 “We have no proof, Will,” Jack laments from the corner, pacing across the room. His work world was crumbling, the papers calling the handling of ‘The Soapbox Seducer’ case poor as well. He grunted.

She believed him when he said Hannibal had an accomplice. She knew something. She knew who his accomplice was. She could help them catch him.Why wouldn’t Jack tell him?

“You went to her home with the video! She knows, Jack. What aren’t you telling me?” Jack Craword took a deep breath, ready to release information from between his lips that he had no business telling. But Hannibal was their killer. They must catch him, but was it worth it if they intended to exploit an innocent woman, a woman who had been through enough already. He handed over the medical file labeled: Du Maurier, Bedelia. It was a file he shouldn’t have had to begin with- a sealed file he had no business passing around. Will Graham’s eyes skimmed over the information of her attack, of the extent of her wounds, pictures of the gash on her neck she did such a good job covering with expensive makeup and blonde curtains of hair. Jack clears his throat.

“Dr. Du Maurier and Hannibal were _involved_ before the attack.” Will’s brows raise. In the weeks he’s spent as Hannibal’s apprentice he’s never once mentioned the woman. “They lost the child she was carrying- that, was the _him_ she referred to in the video.”  Will Graham swallowed. And swallowed again, closing his eyes and pushing the idea of Mason removing his child. A child that wasn’t supposed to be and now never would be. Removing the possibility that she could have children. He’d nearly killed Mason. He would have killed him, had Hannibal not intervened and stopped him. But there was still time to _have_ him killed. He shook his head. He didn’t have time for this. For these thoughts combing their way through his mind and infesting themselves like lice in his scalp. Composing himself, the brown-haired man continued.

“When you called Hannibal, you said he screamed at you, that he lost his self-control completely” Will began. “He cares about Dr. Du Maurier, despite his inclinations to- _others,”_ he continues, referring to Alana Bloom. Refusing to use her name. Hannibal’s alibi. Hannibal’s once bed-partner who now invested her time in Miriam Lass.

  He knows what must be done. In the past weeks he’s killed 3 men to convince Hannibal he was serious. He’s gotten close, but not close enough to provide any evidence. Hannibal needed to fuck up. They needed to see him in public light for what he really was. Finally Will swallows the lump growing in his throat, his words coming out “It seems as though the only way to get to him is through her.”

“We can’t, Will.” Jack wrings his hands together.

“I will catch him.” Will’s voice was low and menacing. A proclamation. He removed the envelope from his pocket, held the invitation between his forefinger and thumb. “It’s next week.” The man nods, the same invitation, written in elegant script on his living room table at home. He has a plan and tells Jack the simple details.

He doesn’t tell Jack Crawford that the reckoning has arrived

* * *

**April 27th, 2014**

**10:30 am**

She takes a cracker from the dinner-party stack and pops it into her mouth. His eyebrows raise and he eyes her briefly. A small smile forms on her lips.

“You slept late,”

“I’ve been incredibly tired,” she rubs her head, pushing away the headache that’s arisen and taking the coffee he offers. She takes a long sip of the hot liquid, ignoring the worry line that’s pressed into his forehead. He knows she’s been sleeping abnormally, as they’ve been sleeping consistently together for nearly a month and a half. She’s been sleeping late for nearly a week and feels fatigued, and yet she still insists on joining him in collecting the meat for their dinner. It would be rude otherwise, she claimed. Rude to make him do all the work.

“The guests will arrive in a matter of hours,” he declares, placing the meat in the oven for its second cooking.

“Just enough time,” her voice is low as she slips her hand over his pants to cup him, lifts on her toes to plant a chaste kiss, before slipping her tongue into his mouth. She’s been insatiable and it only reminds him of how things used to be. How things are now. How they have returned to their old life-nearly.

Her barefeet pad cross the floor as she steps back from him with a wry smile. Once. Twice. Three times before he closes the distance between them and grabs her hips. Pulls her to him. He can feel her hip bones press into his legs and she looks at him with a smirk. Bedelia Du Maurier could have a Doctorate in teasing if she so desired. His tongue is in her mouth and his hands on her face. She takes his hand and runs it down to her thigh and up to the lace of her black panties. His fingers push her underwear to the side and slip into her, feeling the slick warmth. She moans and presses into him but he teases her, gently pressing his fingers to her clit and stopping. She huffs in disapproval and reaches in his sleep pants roughly, running her fingers feather-light over his tip. He bristles. Her tiny feet step from the black-lace panties and he marvels in the sight of her underwear –less body. “Couch,” he growls, and suddenly feels her thighs pressed to his obliques, his hand resting under the toned, milky leg for support. His other hand feels the smooth cushioned skin of her ass. He tastes the coffee on her tongue as he carries her small form to the couch, her teeth tugging at his lip. He’s atop her, marveling in the open dress shirt. settles atop her. He couldn’t wait much longer. His lips are hot on hers, his tongue deep in her mouth. She’s naked from the waist down, but her chest is exposed in the open buttons of his dress shirt. He moans as she pulls his plaid pants over his waist and down his muscular thighs.

“Back” she whispers and he obliges, watching with hungry eyes as she gets on top of him. She feels his penis twitch and knows that he’s remembering the last time she was like this. On top of him. It had been so long.

“Delia,” he moans, tugging at the long ropes of blonde hair, her mouth engulfing him, her head bobbing. He won’t last much longer if she keeps doing that. She slides his cock from her mouth, a final swirl on the tip to tease him. She chuckles huskily when his body becomes rigid at the movement.

The shirt she’d slept in last night, his shirt, was opened quickly by her agile fingers. She knew what he liked, how he loved seeing her breasts fully. She’s perched, knees on either side of him when she takes his penis in her hand, gliding it into the warmth of her walls. She shutters as she lowers herself. Lower. Lower. Deeper. Deeper, until she has him fully inside her. His hands are gripping her ass tightly as the pushes up and down. Up and down. Her breath is jagged and she lands hard on his pelvis with each thrust. He’s nearly there. He fingers her clit, just where he knows she likes it and she throws her head back spilling blonde curls over her shoulders. She picks up the speed, her breasts moving to the rhythm. She’s panting with each thrust and it’s all too much. He releases inside her, moaning “Dealia,” as his head presses further and further back into the cushions of the couch. She slows the pace, riding her own orgasm. With a gasp she pulls herself from him and lays atop his chest, the juices mingling on their skin. On the upholstery.

She slept in his home last night. The last few nights. Nights that had almost turned into a full week. He wanted her to move in, something he never asked her to do before. Things were different now, but he knew they couldn’t risk it. Not now. But soon.

But for now they had a dinner evening to prepare for. There was time for that later.

* * *

**12:00pm**

He slides on his suit jacket as he hears the bathroom door open. She emerges from the steam, her hair wet against her shoulders and the white bathrobe cinched at her waist. She smiles at the dress bag draped across their king-sized bed.  It’s been so long since he’s purchased a dress for her. Entirely too long since she’s worn such a dress. She closes her eyes and lets out a little hum as he settles behind her, whispering “Happy Birthday” in her ear.

“We still have all night,” she returns, leaning back into his touch. Her hair smells delicious but they haven’t the time again. The guests will arrive in nearly an hour and neither of them appreciated being late. It was rude.

The guests would appreciate the fine meat he was serving them.

And if they didn’t, he was never against throwing more than one dinner party in any given month.

* * *

**April 22, 2014**

_He plants the idea in Mason’s mind easily. Mason plotted Hannibal’s life since he’d nearly had Margot kill him. While he could simply wait for Mason’s men to attack Hannibal and kill him, it wasn’t enough. Death would be too kind. He wouldn’t suffer in death, as he had. He took Abigail, Beverly. Freddie Lounds was dead. Alana was gone to him and Margot was simply a one night stand. He had taken everything. He would take his freedom forever by exploiting him through his loved ones. The currier delivers the information easily. First a picture of an invitation with the line ‘wish you were here.’_

_“It’s a shame I wasn’t invited to your party, Dr. Lecter,” Mason says with a fake pout, twirling the small knife he held between his fingers._

_“You are my patient, Mason, not my friend.” Hannibal crosses his legs, wishing he had killed the man weeks ago. He was rude. He didn’t deserve to be alive. He tortured his own sister. But he couldn’t risk it. He was his patient. Mason stabs his knife into the leather chair:_

_“Add it to my tab” he declares._

_The hired currier comes to visit Mason Verger the night before the party he’s intent on crashing. How dare Hannibal not invite him. He was rich. He was powerful. He was already planning to have him killed, if he pushed him once more. The psychiatrist didn’t know the extent of his power. The man holds a manila envelope that his greedy hands open with ease. The loved ones were always the best to target. He’d found the man’s weakness, and he was intent on destroying him like the leather chair in his office. He smiled, wickedly. Bedelia Du Maurier. He wondered if she had any relation to the Daphne Du Maurier family. Shrugging his shoulders he chuckled as he read over the highlighted portions of the document he was given. How he loved this._

_More tears for his collection._

* * *

**Present Day**

**April 27th, 2014**

**5:13pm**

He’s giving kind but assertive directions to the hired help when he pauses in his dictation, catching her at the top of the stairs. He finishes his thought and sends the help on their way, watching as they scoop up his delectable dishes. A grin forms on her lips as she sees the hunger in his eyes. He hasn’t seen her like this in ages. When they would attend plays at the Hippodrome. When they would attend La Trividada and – It didn’t matter now. She was beautiful. And she was smiling softly at him. Her smiles were always reserved for him and he relished in the thought.  She looked ravishing, and he runs his eyes over the dip in her breasts. The curves of her thin but supple body

 _“I look positively enormous” she states, her brow knotted. He slides his fingers over the small round of her stomach and feels a flutter there_ : _“you look ravishing”_

He shakes the intrusive memory from his mind. They were past this. He wouldn’t let his own conscious ruin everything.

“The guests will be arriving shortly,” he declares, pressing a small kiss to the side of her lips, before walking after the hired help.

* * *

**April 27th, 2014**

**5:20 pm**

As Jack Crawford pours over the documents on his desk, he can’t concentrate.  He didn’t care about catching the Soapbox Seducer, he was most likely going to lose his job regardless. He had encouraged Will Graham, who had now committed 3 murders. They were no closer.But he had to catch Hannibal.

 The guilt was eating at him alive. Will Graham was going to use Bedelia Du Maurier. He was going to use Mason to trigger her, in the hopes that Hannibal would kill him- would confide in Will Graham. They would be watching. They would catch him. He hears a ding on his computer and rolls his eyes when he realizes it’s an email about the Soapbox case.

Since they’d set up their hotline for tips, they’d received plenty of bogus claims. ‘He’s a Martian.’ ‘I saw him on 7th avenue the evening he died.’

Three days ago someone had called with an excellent description of the man, claiming that he’d followed a woman, his apparent date, out of the bar. Short. Blonde. Beautiful. Of course the owner didn’t have cameras in his establishment, but this particular restaurant was just barely in sight of the swiveling camera. A newer addition to the area. The tech apparently found something and Jack clicked the video open. It was grainy and the camera swiveled. Cars. Cars. Cars. People. And then the bar. It was black and white, but he knew that silhouette.

Bedelia Du Maurier walked calmly down the street, the last victim of the Soapbox Seducer on her heels. He makes a call to Will Graham that goes unanswered. Once. Twice.

When he drives to her empty house, he knows there’s only one place she can be. It's 6:05 pm now, his party has started. He was fuming- had she lied to him the entire time? Lied about her child, about her patient- a- it didn’t matter. His vision was suddenly clear. He had her.

And if he had her, Hannibal would soon follow.

* * *

**April 27th, 2014**

**6:54 pm**

She stands and has elegant conversation, aptly dodging questions about her disappearance. A holiday, she says. A rewarding trip after her retirement. The guests were enjoying their meat but she felt his eyes- they had been on her all night. Will Graham stared at her, taking long swigs from his wine. He hadn’t eaten anything all night. Hannibal would be greatly disappointed- he’d prepared the kidney of Beverly Katz specifically with him in mind. She could hear her record reverberate throughout their home. _Their?_ When had this become her home as well? When had they fallen so easily back into this routine. She feels his hot breath on her neck before she sees him.

He wasn’t invited. Had Hannibal invited him? Her eyes narrowed. This wasn’t a present at all, it was an attempt to see if Will Graham would murder Mason Verger. She was in fact intrigued, but she worried when Will would see Hannibal- truly see him. He needed to stop before Will Graham’s next move actually got him killed. She had a headache pounding at either side of her head.

When she turned to greet the despicable excuse for a man, his drink was sloshing between his fingers and onto the carpeted floor. “Not my home,” he laughed and threw his head back, spilling more on the imported run they’d bought on a trip to Japan. He was so close, nearly a breath away. As she attempted to turn from him and return to her conversation his hand reached out and rubbed her stomach softly. She took a large step back, knocking into a waiter who fought to balance appetizers. How dare he touch her…touch her there. Alarm and shock was written on her face. Her own drink spilled, running the once wondrous carpet.

“Sorry to hear about the little one,” his eyebrows perched in mock concern. “Can’t imagine old stoicism over there as a father anyway,”  he chuckled

She felt queasy. He told. They knew. Everyone knew. As Mason stared at her smugly, apparently waiting, she held her head high. She felt her chest heave with a breath. This wasn’t the time or the place. She couldn’t ruin the party. She heard the mumblings from the small group of three she was talking to almost immediately, their whispers loud like drums in her ears

_“Pregnant?” “When?” “How?” “Hannibal?” “I thought he was gay.”_

“Please, excuse me,” she said with confidence her back ram-rod straight. She needed to get away-upstairs was out of the question; everyone would notice. Rage overcame her. Rage. Rage. Rage.  She wanted to kill him. She would kill him. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Hannibal making his way across the room, concern etched to mask his anger. He’s attempting to make idle conversation on his way, being the polite hostess he is. Will Graham is smiling at his actions. She needed to tell Hannibal later that night that this was his plan. He was trying to ensnare him. To _use_ her against him.

She’s making her way to the powder room when Jack Crawford enters the home, an officer on either side of him. She swivels to meet the man when her name is called in his booming voice.

“Bedelia Du Maurier.” Her eyes widen and she sees Will Graham first, looking as confused as she is. She sees Hannibal next, now ignoring his manners and practically running across his home. Her hands are brought behind her back and cuffed “you’re under arrest for…” she doesn’t hear the rest. Just stares at him. _Don’t interfere,_ she’s telling him as he continues to gaze. _Run. Run while you can. Leave me. Get away._

She goes along willingly, her heels clicking on the cobblestone path to the unmarked car. He will escape. This is the end. She told him this would happen, though she didn’t foresee this particular instance.

She has no regrets. But as she catches Will Graham’s eyes, now contorted in malice and staring into her, she thinks that maybe she should.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter is the last chapter. Find out what happens! Leave me a review and tell me what you think! :D


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She goes along willingly, her heels clicking on the cobblestone path to the unmarked car. He will escape. This is the end. She told him this would happen, though she didn’t foresee this particular instance.  
> She has no regrets. But as she catches Will Graham’s eyes, now contorted in malice and staring into her, she thinks that maybe she should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final chapter of Savor! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! :D

She’s been sitting in her for nearly 3 hours. She knows they can hold her for 21 more without cause. They only have a video. A simple video that makes her want to slit her wrists but a video nonetheless. She sighs inwardly when Jack Crawford tells her they have a warrant to search her home- she’s long since moved her plants to their secluded cabin. They will only find case files from her old patients, files they legally can’t open.

She wonders what Jack Crawford will do when he realizes that Hannibal Lecter has never _officially_ been her patient. That he can’t get a subpoena for his records because they are not in existence. She smiles inwardly.

They’re trying to break her. Make her confess to a crime so they can avoid finding more evidence. She knows they’re watching her behind the paned glass, observing with a keen eye, waiting for her to write a confession in her own blood. Her head was spinning and she was nauseous. She should have eaten something at the party before drinking. Her head was pounding.

She’s been giving them tight lipped answers to questions. What she truly needed was Angela, her attorney. But she couldn’t call her. Not yet. If she asked for her lawyer, then they couldn’t continue their attempts to break her down through questioning. And when that happened they would concentrate on Hannibal again.

She had to distract them; give Hannibal time to get to the cabin. To escape. She could take their battering.

She didn’t shiver even though she felt Will Graham’s gaze through the glass.

She easily held Jack Crawford’s gaze and simple conversation when he asked her what she was doing on the tape and told her a grand jury would convict.

She resisted the temptation to leap across the table to sink her nails into the flesh of Will Graham’s neck when he proposed that she lied about her miscarriage. She soon sees the unuttered apology in Jack Crawford’s eyes when he enters minutes later, clearing his throat before he begins his circus act of removing the mystery of Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier. She can see how his shoulders tense when he leaves the room, knowing he’s learned nothing. One didn’t become an enigma by disclosing their secrets to the first person who asked, now did they?

When another hour has passed, she finds that it’s really getting difficult for her to concentrate through her headache and nausea.

Bedelia gets up cautiously, attempting to still the spinning room and walks to the glass, knowing that someone, Will Graham at the very least, is standing there.

“I need to use the restroom,” she says softly. She feels as if she’s going to be sick. She should have had more to eat before she had several glasses of wine. There’s no answer. She knows she’s being ignores and reaches to tap on the glass, to inform them that their behavior is inhumane; that she will prosecute when she suddenly has to use the back of her hand to cover her mouth. Her eyes widen and she spins, stumbling to the small metal trashcan and dropping to her knees.

Her back heaves as she expels the contents of her stomach. Wretch after wretch she feels the acidic bile rise as she holds her own hair- her eyes watering. Her gown is pooled around her body as she continues to vomit, finally sitting back on her heels and breathing heavily when she’s finished. Her body burns, but she feels better.

When Jack Crawford comes in with a plastic cup of water she uses the chair and then the table to pull herself to the chair.

She can see it in his eyes. He thinks he’s broken her; that she’s realized that she’s going to prison and it’s getting to her. Despite the pride she sees in his aged eyes, she also sees something else. Compassion, something that Will Graham lacked. He pushes the button of the remote and plays the video again. It’s a tactic she’s seen many times before. Now he’s going to grill her on the events, hoping that since his first showing of the tape it’s stewed inside her. That she’s already been convinced that they had her. As he talks after the grainy video he’s suddenly aware that she isn’t paying any attention. She is oblivious to him.

Her eyes are shifting left and right and she’s sitting stock-still. He’d wonder if she were still alive if it weren’t for her eye movements. Suddenly she begins to wring her hands together. Ha! He had her. A slight smile forms on his lips.

“I-I want to speak with my attorney,” she breathes out, her hands trembling slightly on the table top.

Jack Crawford gets up from his seat. He had hoped she wouldn’t ask but knew it was coming. He’s suddenly reminded of Beverly Katz and hears her whisper “Gotcha” in his head. He had her. And there was nothing a lawyer could do about it. He smiles

* * *

 

Angela walks into the room like a tornado in less than an hour. Jack Crawford follows behind her, disgruntled. She knows what her attorney must have said, and confirms it later when she’s walking down the long halls with the tall black woman in her statuesque heels.

Bedelia pushes the image of Will Graham from her mind. The intense eyes focused on her throat. Hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as if they were already around her neck. He wanted to kill her.  

“Of course we’ll have to formally compose a case, create an alibi” the woman begins, breaking Bedelia out of her reverie. She pushes the door of the building open and holds it for her client. “it was lucky you emailed me weeks ago about Jack Crawford purposefully triggering your PTSD” she pauses “Well, lucky as it could have been. It got you out of their custody the second I threatened to bring it to the courts.”

Bedelia’s mind is moving quickly, hoping he had escaped, that he’d gone to the cabin- that she’d given them enough time.

She can’t concentrate on her attorney, who’s recounting exactly what she said to ruffle Crawford’s feathers. Bedelia’s doing counting of her own. It can’t be. Last month when she skipped her period she amounted that it was due to stress-from malnutrition. But this month. She was late, late by almost two weeks. She was exaggerating, jumping to conclusions without proper evidence. Still, she can’t help herself. Can’t help the anxiety that’s attempting to rip its way out of her chest. Had he fled already? She couldn’t-no she wouldn’t call him back for a simple hunch. She wouldn’t put him in danger. Give them another chance to put him behind bars- take away his freedom.

Angela beams at her in the frigid cold, telling her that the taxi at the end of the steps is hers and reminding her that she plans to see her tomorrow at 5pm. She shakes the smiling woman’s hand, knowing half of Angela’s excitement is from this minor win over Federal Agents. The other half is due to the thousands of dollars she knows will enter her bank account shortly- the thousands more she expects to gain from representing her client in this high-profile case.

Bedelia smiles softly, thanking the woman and getting into the taxi.

“Ma’m, where we going?” The taxi driver questions with a smile and native Baltimorean accent.

“I have to go to a drugstore. Please take me to any open location.”

* * *

 

When she finally gets to her house, a draft circulating in the high ceilings and old floors, the first thing she does is step from her 4 inch heels, her feet sore and aching. She climbs the stairs, needing to get out of the long expensive dress. When she’s removed her clothes except lace bodice and panties she walks into her master bathroom, holding the box in her hands, removing the instrument carefully.

And she waits. She leaves the bathroom, hoping that sliding into her favorite silk camisole will help calm her nerves.

It doesn’t.

When she’s sure enough minutes have passed she attempts to walk into the bathroom, turning on her heels twice. She runs her hand through her long curled hair. Her head aches from all this thinking.

Finally she walks into the bathroom, the tiles cold against her feet. She bites her lip as she brings the item to her eyelevel.

A sob escapes her chest and she drops to her knees, holding the test tightly between her fingers.

The letters blink back at her ‘Pregnant.’

* * *

 

He knew she would kill him when she found out he didn’t run. That she would yell and scream and tell him he ruined everything. And he had if he was being honest. At this very moment, when he should be using his French passport labeled Ancil Dubois and escaping to her unlisted home in France, he couldn’t. Not when the booklet labeled Olivie Dubois sat next to it, and started back with her azure eyes. Olivie, he practiced on his tongue. He couldn’t leave her behind, as much as she insisted.

He hoped Bedelia wouldn’t do anything rash; that Mason, definitely encouraged by Will Graham, hadn’t made her do anything rash. He hoped that she wouldn’t wait too long, in anticipation of their escape- that she would call Angela; that she wasn’t still achy as she had been earlier (not that she would ever tell him). She didn’t deserve to be rotting there. She shouldn’t be behind bars, especially not in his place. She had tried to save him from himself. He couldn’t abandon her. He just had some things to finish up here at their cabin.

Taking out Mason’s phone he dialed from his cabin. “I’m hungry,” the man announced to the 911 operator like a petulant child.

As the man removed his nose, as instructed, he snapped his neck. He wouldn’t touch anyone ever again, especially not _his_ Bedelia.

When he drove away in his car, his minor bag accompanied by a small duffle packed in the back he noticed a blinking from his private phone- the number only she had. She must have been released. They had to hurry.

As he sped down the road, he listened to her message and his heard dropped.

 _“Ha-Hannibal”_ she whispered over the line, her voice sounding strained. _“I know, I know I told you to run but”_ he heard her sharp intake of breath as she attempted to compose herself _“things have changed.”_

Her voice alarmed him, sounding both terrified and blissfully happy.

 _“We need to hurry,”_ were her last words

He looked to his right at the person now sitting in his passenger seat. The main reason he needed to go to the cabin. She’d kill him if he hadn’t.

“We have to get Bedelia,” he said plainly to the passenger, immediately seeing their eyes light up at the mention of her name, happy that they weren’t abandoning her. His foot pressed down on the accelerator and he took the corners of deserted country roads sharply, determined to reach her house.

* * *

 

He had her passport and she only hoped he hadn’t already boarded a plane. She needed to leave tonight. Her camisole hung loosely around her thighs and she’d finally realized how much weight she’d lost over the last few months, now returning to her body. She didn’t look emaciated any longer and she closed her eyes, small tears slipping from her.

 _Pregnant._ She- _they_ were pregnant.

There was too much at stake to stay. She would risk everything for him; to ensure his safety. But she couldn’t risk their child- not again. As she opened a carry-on sized suitcase atop her bed, she filled it with simple items.

If she was lucky he was at the airport. She would meet him there.

 If she wasn’t, she would risk flying as Bedelia Du Maurier. She would catch a flight to Croatia, Lithuania- the list went on. Anywhere but here. She only needed to get through the terminals. She briefly thought of killing another woman for their boarding pass but discarded the idea. She couldn’t.  She didn’t know her history. It was too high risk.

Just as she was about to pull the light pink silk camisole from her body in favor for suitable clothes she heard a sound at her front door.

Hannibal. He had come for her. She smiled softly, hoping he was happy with her news.

She toed the steps carefully, carpet warm against her naked feet. Reaching the third down she immediately freezes. The house didn’t smell like Hannibal.

It smelt like dog.

Like Will Graham.

Quickly, she screens her options. She wonders if she could simply return upstairs-lock herself in one of the closets. But he would come for her; that much she knew. He was here to kill her. Calling the police was not an option, especially when one was attempting to flee the country illegally.

She slinks carefully back to her room, opening her bedside stand carefully, the metal of the gun cold in her small hand. It’s been long since she’s fired it. She would tonight. She had to escape. Needed to get on a plane and get away from this. _She warned him this would happen. “He will seek vengeance,”_ she had said.

She just didn’t think he would come after her.

She’s holding the gun the way she was trained so many years ago, hands bracing the metal. As she enters the kitchen, scanning the dark room before reaching out for the light-switch, he pounces. Bedelia lets out a startled gasp as he grabs her by the neck with one hand, his other holding forcing her arm to 12 o’clock. He has her against the door frame, her arm high above her head, still holding the gun. Her breathing is erratic as he bangs her hand against the jamb, making her let go of the weapon, which falls gracelessly to the floor with a clatter. Her head is jostled when it collides with the door frame, the hard wood in her back.

“Did you kill Beverly with _him?_ Abigail?” he seethes, tightening his hand around her neck

She is silent, her eyes searching his in the dark room.

“No,” she says with strength, despite the hand threatening to end her life. “I did not.”

 “You believed me,” he laughs sharply moving the hair from her neck with his free hand and scrubbing at her tender skin until the make-up is removed. “Funny thing is, I don’t believe you.” Her flesh is red but he can clearly see the angry lines, feel them under his fingers, like brand marks. “Did he hold you like this, your patient?” He questions, cocking his head to the side, and smiling when he hears her sharp intake of breath. He lifts her from the ground and she kicks her bare feet, red painted toenails arching and flailing. She claws at his hand, her eyes bulging in their sockets. It’s too much like before. She can’t. She can’t. Not again. He’s squeezing with all his might and she reaches her hands out and grabs his face, which moves from side-to-side in an attempt to avoid her.

“Stop,” she rasps “please,” she croaks.

“You killed them together,” he runs his hands through his hair, obviously contemplating his choices momentarily. “My friends.”

“No.” Her fingers firmly get his cheeks with intent to force her thumbs into his eye sockets. It will not be like before. “Abigail,” she gasps. She would not lose everything. Not again. She’s surprised when his hands unclench before she reaches the sockets and he tosses her to the floor. She tumbles and struggles for breath, coughing as she gets on her hands and knees

He believed her, at first. She betrayed him. She killed his friends. And if she hadn’t, it didn’t matter. She was the sacrifice. Hannibal would pay. He would feel his pain. 

“Where is Hannibal?” He nearly screams, and her voice is rough, but  barely above a whisper.

“Gone.”

She’s crawling across the slick tiles of her kitchen floor. It’s so dark, she can barely see anything. But she needs to find something. Anything. But his feet are now clicking on the tiles as he walks toward her. His footsteps are getting closer and closer and suddenly she feels like she’s in a game. _‘Warmer.Warmer,’_ she could say, but once he got to _‘hot’_ and _‘burning up’_ she would be long dead.

“Guess we need to do something to bring him back.” Will Graham says, grabbing a knife from the set on her counter.

He hears a clanging sound but doesn’t see her fingers grasp the top of the marble kitchen countertop in the darkness. He hears her footsteps fast but isn’t sure where she’s gone. She was quick, even injured.

Hannibal’s companion would make a marvelous display. He licked his lips in anticipation. The chandelier in the foyer would be an excellent mantle.

* * *

 

He walks into the house and the first thing he sees is a bloody handprint, slid across the wall like a trail leading to his demise. His footsteps are feather-light. Someone had come for her. He knew that _someone_ had to be Will Graham and dread filled his whole body. He was too late. He couldn’t save her this time. He’d ruined everything.

Turning into the living room, he finds her. Her back is turned to him and she’s sitting straddled, moving back and forth. There’s a knife, seemingly discarded staining the carpet. No matter. The blood stains from the body would be impossible to get out anyway.

“Bedelia?” He questions, as he moves closer he hears the soft sounds of exertion she’s making. He lays a hand on her shoulder but she stares blankly, and unseeing at Graham. Her hands clench and unclench repeatedly as he wheezes out breaths.

God, she was trying to strangle him.

He saw her forearms shake as she tried to keep a grasp around his neck, a neck that her tiny hands couldn’t even fully wrap around.

“Delia, stop.” He states, noting that she hadn’t cut any major arteries. She’d tried to save Will for him. When her hands didn’t stop, he lifts her, pulling her hands from his neck gently as stares at them. She hisses in pain and he looks down to see a slash on her ribs, the fabric of her camisole torn beyond repair.

Her eyes are wide and she’s covered in smeared blood. The top of her head his cut, her lip is bleeding.

But beneath her, Will Graham is struggling to remain conscious. She’s punctured a lung it seems to immobilize him.

Or to make the strangulation easier, he admits sadly.

“He came to display you,” Hannibal whispers softly. “For vengeance.” Her words echo in his head; words of warning that he carelessly ignored. He’s been so foolish. He put her at risk. He put everything at risk over a patient. Someone he had wished to call a friend. He stills her shaking hands and tips her chin so she can look at him. “I should have listened.”

He suddenly hears Will Graham gasp for air. The man is struggling to pull himself up against the wall, his breath ragged but glare intense. Bedelia disappears up the stairs and he’s thankful that she’s giving him this. Thankful that she can see through the person-suit he’s begun to remove piece by piece. She’s giving him time.

His time to cope. To let go of his patient. His once upon a time friend.

“I. Will. Kill. You.”  Will breathes out harshly and Hannibal crouches next to the man. She had been right. He thought- He thought- It didn’t matter any longer. He takes his hand and presses it to Graham’s face, moving his fingers over the man’s bloody stubble.

“I wanted to surprise you, Will”

The man stares at him in confusion.

“But you wanted to surprise me”

He runs the knife deep into his stomach, and the blood begins to ooze from his body. He sputters and gasps, attempting to hold his body together.

“Abigail,” he calls and the girl emerges from doorjamb. His eyes widen. She was alive. Abigail. His Abigail. “come here,” Hannibal whispers, holding his hand for the young woman. Hannibal stands, the knife hidden in his other hand, as Will shakes his head, eyes wide and desperately urging her to go. He can’t bring the words to his lips.

“I’m sorry, but he said-”she begins before he pulls her to him, sliding the blade across her neck. Her eyes widen in horror as the person she trusted to keep her safe spills her precious lifeblood. She falls, the blood spurting from her carotid and suddenly Will Graham’s slick fingers are on her, trying to stop the wound fruitlessly.

Bedelia walks down the steps, fresh from a shower. Her hair is sopping wet but she’s clad in heels and a simple black dress.  She sets a hand on his shoulder and tells him to wash up before she steps around the growing pools of blood to get to the car.

He pretends he doesn’t see the way her face tenses when she sees Abigail writhing on the floor. Pretends he doesn’t see her eyes glistening. She had begged him to save the girl initially. But  that wasn’t possible any longer.

He washes his hands of the blood and walks out into the rain. This life was gone.

* * *

 

They are driving for nearly 2 hours before she says anything. Her hair has long since dried in curly ringlets, so different from her normally coifed style. He loves it like this. The smell of her shampoo and black orchids wafting through the car.

“You called the police,” she states plainly, as they drive up the East Coast. United States airports would be looking for their faces, despite their passports. But Canada would be different. The 13 hour drive would get them there mid-day.  The wound he’d inflicted on Will Graham would be debilitating for weeks. But he would recover, since he’d called the police.

“I couldn’t let go completely.” She should be seething at his words, but as he glances over at her, he notices she isn’t. There’s a line of worry between her brows. “I needed to-”

She glances to the backseat and sees a simple duffle bag. Belongings of a girl who, unlike Will Graham, wouldn’t recover.

“I know,” she speaks softly. “It’s never possible to let go completely.” He nods and notices that she’s wringing her hands together.

She knows he had to fully separate himself from Will Graham, that he intended on killing Abigail months ago. That he needed to kill her at that moment.

But it still pains her to remember the young girl knocking on the cabin doors when she was inconsolable and asking: ‘Dr. Du Maurer, are you okay?’ She’d helped her cope.

Abigail’s head lying in her lap as she worked on her ear wound and assured her that any man or woman would find her beautiful. Abigail asking what it was like to have a baby inside her.

Teaching the girl about her flowers, which she moved to the cabin specifically for the young woman.

Her favorite candy was Swedish fish, an item Bedelia picked up on her first successful trip out herself.  The girl smiled brilliantly when the older woman first started showing up to the cabin alone, able to leave her home without constant anxiety attacks.

The passport with Alexandrie Dubois written in the same print as her own name and her picture on the front, now useless.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I should have listened when you asked to leave.”

Abigail would still be alive then, she knew. But there was no sense dwelling in the past.

It doesn’t stop her from grabbing the small bag from the back seat and sobbing into the ‘Ramones’ shirt she pulls from it.

* * *

 

It is near the end of their trip- a mere 3 hours to go, after she’s cried herself to sleep and woken that he realizes he never asked her what happened. She takes her neck in her hand and rubs it, her sleeping posture less than desirable. Luckily, they would be flying first class on the plane. She wipes the sleep from her puffy eyes and glances over at him after checking her watch. He had been driving for 8 hours.

“Hannibal, I can drive.”

“I’m fine,” he responds, following with the question he should have asked hours ago. “Bedelia, when you called me. What happened?”

Bedelia looks down and wrings her hands together, although not like before. He can see a soft smile on her face, although it is lessened by recent events. She reaches out and takes his right hand from the steering wheel. If he’s alarmed, he doesn’t show it on his face.

Until she drags his hand to rest over her flat abdomen.

His brows reach his hairline and his eyes are questioning.

She lets out a small sob and shakes her head

“I’m pregnant, Hannibal.”

He takes her hand in his and brings it to his lips, careful to steer with his other hand. He kisses the back of her hand, feeling the smooth lines of her veins, and then each of her knuckles.

* * *

 

He reaches over on the flight, taking her hand softly in his own before the French attendant offers them Champaign. Glancing over at his companion, who politely refuses, he smiles softly and takes his own glass. Closing his eyes he drinks the smooth liquid and thinks of the future; where they were going and where they had been.

They were starting a new life. And he would be sure to _savor_ it.


End file.
